


The Prime Directive Affair

by LeetheT



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series, The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-31 05:03:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20109580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeetheT/pseuds/LeetheT
Summary: This is a Man from U.N.C.L.E./ Star Trek crossover





	The Prime Directive Affair

# The Prime Directive Affair

_Thanks to Nataliya for helping this story to make sense_

“Captain’s log, Stardate 5127.2. We are in pursuit of a Klingon Bird of Prey whose crew intercepted a transmission between two Federation research vessels performing experiments exploring the possibilities of time travel via what is called the slingshot effect. Starfleet Command fears the Klingons have some plot in mind to use the technique and it appears they may be right. Our quarry’s course has been plotted and they look to be headed for Earth.”

Captain James T. Kirk stopped the recording, stared at the switch for a moment. As if the Klingons weren’t dangerous enough here and now, with the might of Star Fleet keeping them in line. It chilled him to imagine the havoc they might wreak in a pre-space-culture Earth.

His door buzzer sounded. “Come.”

The door slid aside and Lt. Commander Spock and Dr. Leonard McCoy entered.

“You wanted to see us, Jim?” McCoy asked as the door swished shut behind them.

“Sit down.” Kirk indicated the chairs around his console. When both men were seated he began.

“You know something of our current mission.”

“Klingons,” McCoy said. “They stole some data from one of our scientific vessels.”

“Yes. But the specifics are classified.”

“Darn,” McCoy said, unsmiling. “And I was going to announce it over the shipwide channel at midnight. What is it?”

“They have all the data Star Fleet possesses regarding time travel,” Kirk said. “More specifically, the slingshot effect.”

McCoy’s eyes narrowed. “Then the Klingons can now travel in time.”

“Potentially,” Spock said. “The data came primarily from our … inadvertent experience. A Klingon Bird of Prey has substantially different construction specifications. The specifics of their structure, power, and shielding are still not known to the Federation, but –”

“To make a long story short—” Kirk cut in with a smile.

“Too late,” McCoy remarked.

“– we don’t know if they can do it,” Kirk continued. “We only know they’re likely to try. And that they’re headed for Earth.”

Spock’s brow furrowed faintly, the only sign, Kirk knew, of how striking he found the information.

“Earth,” McCoy echoed. “You mean they want to travel to Earth’s past?”

“We have to assume it,” Kirk said. “And we have to try to stop them.”

“At best speed,” Spock said, “we are unlikely to reach Earth before they have had time to attempt the slingshot maneuver, if that is in fact their plan.”

“Well, their damn’ cloaking device should get them past planetary defenses,” McCoy said. “Who knows what damage even one Klingon ship could do to a more primitive Earth?”

Kirk nodded. “It’ll be our job to prevent it. If Mr. Spock is correct—” Kirk glanced at his first officer and caught the raised eyebrow. “As he invariably is—”

“Hogwash,” McCoy muttered.

“—we won’t get there in time to stop them, but we may get there in time to—”

“Follow them?” McCoy blurted. “Oh joy.”

Spock said, “There is an 87.3 percent chance we will arrive in time to enter the space-time warp effect directly behind the Klingon ship. If they are successful in their attempt.”

“Let’s hope they won’t be,” Kirk said. “I’d rather stop them here than try to figure out what they’re planning in 1776, or wherever they aim to go back to.”

“Just one Bird of Prey?’ McCoy asked. “Could it be a renegade?”

“Or a suicide mission,” Kirk said. “We don’t know.”

“Is it possible that they stole the data but don’t really know what they’ve got?”

“Their present course suggests some planning,” Spock said drily. “Indicating in turn that they know now, if not when they intercepted it, precisely what they have.”

“And Star Fleet Command is convinced that what they have in mind is the annihilation of the human race,” Kirk said.

**~*~*~**

Ensign Pavel Chekov leaned in, peering at his board, as if distance and not bald facts were the issue. “Captain, we’ve lost them.”

Kirk leaned forward as well, cursing internally. “Last certain location, ensign.” They’d been closing on the Klingon ship since entering the solar system, a chase of many hours having cut their foes’ lead down to mere minutes.

“One hundred thousand kilometers from the Earth, sir,” Chekov said “They—”

“Captain –” Spock cut in. “Sensors indicate a ship moving at approximately Warp nine –” He turned in his seat as Kirk turned toward him. “And accelerating.”

“Direction?” Kirk was already out of his chair and springing up the step to Spock’s station.

“Toward the sun.”

Chekov echoed, “Yes, sir – I’ve got them again. Confirming Mr. Spock’s information.”

Kirk rapidly scanned Spock’s indicators, glancing at the Vulcan to confirm what appeared to be their next necessary step – or leap.

Spock nodded. “We can follow them – but we must act now.”

Kirk nodded. “Go.” He spun an moved back to his chair. “Sulu, Chekov - after them. Warp 8.” He slapped down the communication switch. “Scotty – the Klingons are headed toward the sun – they’re going to try the slingshot maneuver. We’re going after them – _now_. Give me everything you’ve got and more.”

Obedience and concern were evident in Scotty’s two words. “Aye, sir.”

Kirk slid into his chair, took a breath. “All right, people, we’ve been through this before. Hold on tight and hope we can get hold of their tails.”

All eyes locked onto the tiny image of the Klingon vessel as it headed for the sun.

“We’re gaining,” Sulu said over the loud hum of the engines. “Engines are at full power, but we’re at Warp 10 and accelerating.”

“Are you sure this will work, Spock?” Kirk asked, not taking his squinting gaze from the dot that was the Klingon ship.

“Theoretically,” Spock said. “A bubble of time-space distortion is created during the effect; our calculations suggest it will expand to engage any object within approximately 300 kilometers of the ship creating the effect and moving at the same velocity.”

“Distance, Mr. Sulu,” Kirk said.

“1000 kilometers and closing,” Sulu said. “Captain, what if the Klingons detect us?”

“Unlikely, Mr. Sulu, given the extreme –”

“Sir, we’ve lost them!” Chekov exclaimed.

“—distortion effect of the slingshot maneuver on all sensors,” Spock said with exaggerated patience.

Kirk smiled, grabbed the arms of his chair, and squinted at the sun-filled viewscreen.

“Chronometer is slowing,” Uhura said.

“Here we go,” Kirk said. “Everyone hang on.”

**~*~*~**

Kirk picked himself up from the deck. _Ouch_.

“We have got to find a way of doing that better,” he muttered as he looked around the bridge.

Lieutenant Uhura was pulling herself back up to her station. “I entirely agree, captain.”

“Are you all right, lieutenant?”

“Yes sir.” Her hands were already dancing over her board. “No contact with Star Fleet. Let me check for signals on old Earth wavelengths.”

“We no longer have a sensor lock on the Klingon vessel,” Spock said. Kirk glanced over; of course Spock had managed to retain his seat through the upheavals of the slingshot effect.

“Cloaked,” Kirk muttered. “Uhura?”

Lt. Uhura laid one elegant hand to her earpiece. “Monitoring, sir.” After a moment she said, “It seems to be the mid to late 20th century, sir. The 1960s.”

Spock, also monitoring planetary transmissions, said, “Confirmed, captain. The year is 1967.”

Kirk gazed thoughtfully at the viewscreen. “Have the computer prepare appropriate costumes. I have a feeling we’ll have to follow them down.”

“They must uncloak to transport,” Spock said. “There has been no indication of that as yet.”

“Unless they beamed down the moment they arrived,” Kirk theorized. “Before they cloaked.”

“Possible, sir,” Spock conceded. “But if so we may have some difficulty pinpointing their location.”

Kirk shook his head. “Start a high-detail scan of all transmissions from Earth. If anything seems out of the ordinary, let me know.”

“Aye sir.” Uhura returned full attention to her console.

“They might simply have landed,” Kirk postulated. “Ship and all. Cloaked, it’s almost as safe set down in some farmer’s field as it would be in orbit.”

“Perhaps we can locate their emissions,” Spock said. “Even if the ship is cloaked, those are traceable and would be unique in this era.”

“Try it,” Kirk said. “Let me know the minute you find anything.”

**~*~*~**

Annie Cross hurried across the production room floor and up the concrete stairs, responding to the various catcalls and whistles with a wave. In a small town most people were longtime employees wherever they were employed. Most of the men on the floor had known her since she was a baby and she knew there was no bad intent behind their behavior.

On the second floor she scanned the hall, then darted down to the office door that bore a brass plaque announcing Benjamin Cross, President, to anyone who cared. At the moment, Annie only cared that her father wasn’t there. She slipped inside, shut the door and crossed to the closet, giggling to herself. She hadn’t been home in weeks – months – and with graduation only a month away he wouldn’t be expecting to see her. He had a tendency to forget little things like his own birthday. Annie shut the closet door behind her, setting down her canvas tote. Her present to her father – an engraved gold pen – sat wrapped in the bottom of the tote along with the miscellaneous necessaries of a young woman’s daily life.

Through the mesh vent she could see the clock. 12:49. He always returned from lunch promptly at 1. Annie giggled again and set herself to wait.

**~*~*~**

Benjamin Cross strolled into his office at 12:57 after a mediocre lunch at Baily’s in town. He loosened his tie and draped his suit coat over the back of his chair, then eased himself into his seat, intending to take a few minutes to rest and digest before attacking the constant pile of urgent business in his in box.

Annie had her hand on the door handle when the room suddenly filled with a sparkling grey light and a low, powerful hum.

Alarmed, Ben Cross banged his chair back into the wall and stood, but the sparkling lights were between him and the door. Before he could think what to do, the hum faded and six large men stood in a semicircle around his desk.

Annie clapped her hand over her mouth to silence her cry, but didn’t move otherwise. All big and dark, the men wore strange, metallic-grey clothing. One drew a little grey tube from his belt. Until he pointed it at her father, Annie would never have thought it might be a weapon.

“What ... is …” Ben Cross sputtered, falling back into his chair.

“Be silent,” the man said, his voice low and harsh. “You are Cross.”

Ben Cross nodded. Annie leaned on the wall to steady her shaking body, trying to breathe quietly, trying to listen and think what to do.

“My name is Korg. As of this moment I am in command of your manufacturing site.” He gestured vaguely to indicate the plant. “You and your people will do as we say or we shall annihilate you.”

White-faced, Cross gripped the arms of his chair, eyes darting from the man’s face to his weapon.

“Who …” he tried again.

“Your top officials,” Korg said. “Name them.”

Annie immediately thought of John Peters and Dave Pinkerton, her father’s plant bosses.

Cross’ jaw worked.

“Name them!” Korg barked.

“P-p-peters,” Cross stammered. “P-pinkerton.”

Korg looked at one of his men – all of them were huge, mean looking brutes – and that man turned away, pulled a box out of his belt and began speaking into it, voice too low for Annie to make out the words.

“We have your family,” Korg said. At the suddenly sick look on her father’s face Annie almost shouted out a denial. She was his only family – but she realized that if she revealed herself, Korg’s lie would become the truth.

“Wh-what do you want?” Cross whispered. Tears sprang to Annie’s eyes and she blinked furiously. She had to pay attention, had to think of some way of helping her father.

Korg smiled, showing teeth like a wolf’s, and pulled a handful of black canisters from his belt.

“We plan to convert your plant to distribute this substance,” he said, setting the little canisters on the desk. “It will take a few of your days to adapt your equipment. Your people will do this under our direction. No one is to know anything except that our orders are to be followed without delay or question. You and your top associates will instruct your people, following our directions. If you cooperate, we will not kill you and your families. If you do not cooperate …” Korg smiled again.

“No—” Cross raised shaking hands. “I’ll do what you want.”

“First, call your associates in here,” Korg said. “We will instruct the three of you on what to do.”

Cross reached a hand to the intercom button, missing it twice before at last pushing the switch.

Pinkerton and Peters, both in their shirtsleeves, ties askew, came in. Cross’ two seconds even looked alike – much like Cross himself – fair, brown-haired, potbellied and worried-looking. They hesitated on seeing the half dozen hulking brutes surrounding their boss, but one of Korg’s men quickly shut the office door behind them and pushed them forward.

“Now,” Korg said. “Tell me what each man does.”

As Peters and Pinkerton stared, Cross stammered out their duties. When he was done, Korg looked at one of his men.

“Kadath.” The man, even larger than Korg, stepped forward and gave an odd sort of salute.

“Now. I dislike unnecessary explanations and shows of force. I want instant obedience. To prove that I mean what I say—” He nodded at Kadath. “Kill that one.” He waved a hand at Pinkerton.

“No!” Cross jumped up from his desk, but Kadath’s weapon was in his hand. A beam of red light hummed from the weapon, struck Pinkerton, enveloped him – and he was gone.

Annie bit hard on her own hand to keep from screaming, but she couldn’t stop the tears from pouring down her face. She backed into the rear wall of the closet and covered her face with both hands, trembling, praying these killers wouldn’t hear her sobs.

“His family also will be killed,” Korg said, “so that there is no suspicion. You two will say he is on … I believe the term is holiday?”

Annie could hear the bared-teeth grin in his voice. It didn’t surprise her that neither her father nor Peters managed an answer.

“Now,” Korg continued. “Let me tell you exactly what I want you to do. Then, we shall tour your facility.”

**~*~*~**

Ten minutes later, puffy-eyed and shaking, Annie crept out of the closet and looked around the empty room. There wasn’t even a speck to mark where Dave Pinkerton had been murdered. Annie clutched her tote, thinking furiously. She had to get out right away, before they came back. She needed to call the police. She thought about calling from here, but the chance that they’d come back and catch her seemed too great. She also wanted to leave a note for her father to reassure him she was safe – but if those men found it and knew that her dad was aware they had no hostage, they might kill him.

Then she remembered – her father’s birthday present.

She leaned across the desk, dug the gift out of her tote, and slid it into his top desk drawer. He would know it came from her, know it hadn’t been there before – but there was no way for those men to know. Satisfied, she slid the drawer shut, unhooked her tote from the corner of the desk where it had gotten caught, and hurried to the door.

She listened for a moment and heard nothing. She opened the door, ran down the corridor – drawing puzzled looks from the workers she saw – and escaped down the back stairs that let out in the employee parking lot. There were enough people around that she decided to be cautious. Slipping on sunglasses to hide her red eyes, she walked across the parking lot to her car and drove carefully away from the plant. Directly to the police department.

**~*~*~**

Police Chief Bates listened, smirking, arms crossed, then picked up the phone and called the plant despite Annie’s protests.

He got her father’s secretary, who immediately put him through to Ben Cross.

“Ben? Hey. It’s Todd Bates. How are you? Good. Listen, everything OK up there? Yeah. Your daughter’s in here saying … well, she’s got some crazy story about gangsters with ray guns. Yeah. Okay. Sorry, Ben, I don’t know. Maybe some kind of practical joke or something. Sure. Okay. Bye.”

Bates hung up. “He said everything’s fine. You sure you aren’t … on something, young lady?”

“On …” Annie echoed, shaking with fear and frustration. “What are you talking about?”

“I didn’t like to say it to your dad – and you were always a good kid – but, you know, college campuses. A lot of wild stuff goes on there. Drinking, drugs …”

Annie took a deep breath. “I’m not on anything. My father is—”

“Your father’s fine. I just talked to him. If this is some prank it’s gone far enough.”

With a curse Annie whirled and headed for the door, tears spilling down her face. Now what?

She bustled into her car and rubbed an arm across her eyes, seeing the smokestacks of the plant looking in the distance above the trees on the edge of town. Right now those men – those murderers – had her father and there was nothing the police would do. She knew why her father had lied – the men were probably right there standing over him, making him pretend everything was fine. And what were they planning? Some kind of mass murder, probably. And she was the only one who knew – and the police … damn Bates for not listening, _damn_ him …

A fresh burst of tears burned her eyes and she fumbled in her bag for a tissue or handkerchief. Coming across an unfamiliar shape, she pulled it out and gasped – one of those little metal canisters must’ve fallen into her bag while she was sprawled over her dad’s desk putting the present in the drawer.

Her despair lifted – proof! But of what? Anything might be in there – poison, nerve gas …

Annie set the canister on the seat and started the car. This was no job for a provincial cop like Bates. She needed to contact professionals.

**~*~*~**

Napoleon Solo looked out from under lowered brows at the other three people seated around the table. All three looked back at him, expressionless, as he slid his right hand onto the table, collected two small blue discs, and pushed them forward.

“I raise 20,” he said, looking to his right.

Lori, one half of the sexiest twins Napoleon had ever met, lowered green eyes to her cards in a brief glance, then used a perfectly manicured red nail to flick two chips into the pot.

“Call.” She looked to her right, where her sister Dori, 17 minutes younger, simply pushed her call into the pot and sat back, a satisfied smile on her luscious lips. All three players looked expectantly at the fourth.

Illya Kuryakin laid his cards face down on the table and said, “I’ll see you, and raise you 50.” He dropped the appropriate number of chips into the center of the table.

Napoleon had to admit that, although Illya’s knowledge of the game was, as of this moment, less than three hours old, the concept had come easily to him – and he might have invented poker face.

Nonetheless he said, as if concerned, “Are you sure you want to do that?”

Illya favored his partner with a cool glance. “Reasonably.”

Lori and Dori exchanged a look under their thick false eyelashes, and Napoleon cursed to himself. He’d had a hard enough time getting Illya to agree to this double date (and only because Dori had assured him she and her sister dated in no other fashion) but the auburn-haired twins’ growing fascination with the enigmatic Russian was causing him some regret. Illya, of course, noticed, and found it highly amusing.

“I’ll see that,” Napoleon said.

“Too rich for my blood,” Lori said, throwing her hand in and taking a sip of her martini.

“Same here,” Dori conceded, dropping her cards and rising to turn over the jazz LP Illya had put on earlier. Napoleon’s gaze followed her across the room, and he had to smile in appreciation of what her figure did to the simple little black dress she wore. They were well put together, Lori and Dori, bright and fun and sexy as hell. Only Illya would have to be talked into going out with women like this.

Napoleon leaned back in his chair and spread his cards on the chips. “Tough luck, tovarish. Full house, nines over threes.”

Illya’s cool blue eyes rested briefly on Napoleon’s cards, then the Russian smiled slightly and flipped his own cards over, one at a time. Straight flush.

“I believe the expression is read them and weep,” he said, straight-faced.

Dori, standing behind Illya, laid her hands on his shoulders and laughed.

“He’s got you, Napoleon,” she said. Her sister smiled as Illya raked in the chips.

“I get the feeling I’ve been hustled,” Napoleon said as Illya tidily stacked his pile of chips. “Aren’t you supposed to be against capitalism?”

“Only in theory,” Illya said.

Dori said, leaning down to speak into Illya’s ear, “You’re a quick study, Mr. Kuryakin.”

“Well, Napoleon is a good teacher,” he said modestly. “The rest is just natural talent.”

Dori slid her arms around his neck. “Are you naturally talented in other ways?” she said, low. Napoleon, grinning, took Lori’s hand and drew her to her feet.

“Let’s dance.”

She giggled and moved into his arms. His apartment had little floor space for dancing, but it did boast a roomy balcony with a gorgeous view, so he maneuvered their dance steps in that direction – and his communicator beeped.

**~*~*~**

“Come in, gentlemen, come in.” Mr Waverly waved his top agents into the room without glancing up from the file he was perusing. The chief of Section I paced slowly about the office, followed by the brown-eyed gaze of a pretty young woman who sat at the great circular table, hands twisted in her lap. Both agents noted her tired, pinched countenance and rumpled clothes.

“Sorry to call you away from your leisure time …” Waverly finally actually looked at his two agents, and, whether through an unusually keen sense of smell or some sixth sense, scowled and said, “I hope you didn’t drive here yourselves.”

Napoleon scowled, looked down at himself. He’d thought they’d cleaned up Lori and Dori’s … expression of farewell … sufficiently.

Illya took the initiative. “We took a cab. What’s up, sir?”

The girl was now looking a little dubiously at the two agents.

“Well, we _were_ off duty,” Napoleon began.

“Never mind that now,” Waverly brushed the explanation aside. “This young lady is Anne Cross. I want you two gentlemen to hear what she has to say.” Again, the scowl. “Perhaps you’d better sit down to do it.”

Napoleon and Illya exchanged a glance and a shrug. If Mr. Waverly didn’t want an explanation as to why his top agents smelled like something you’d use to mop a bar floor, that was all right by them.

“Please tell these gentlemen what you told me, Miss Cross.”

Annie retold her tale. Whatever doubts she might’ve had regarding the agents’ sobriety were nothing to theirs regarding hers when she was done. Both men looked to Mr. Waverly.

“We’ve had the contents of the canister analyzed,” Waverly said, passing Illya the file he’d kept in his hand throughout Annie’s recapitulation. Illya scanned the entire file, his brow growing progressively more furrowed. When he handed it to his partner, Napoleon skipped the technical details (they were lost on him; his knowledge of chemistry was rudimentary) and flipped to the summary.

“Yes,” Mr. Waverly said. “A sufficiently powerful toxin to kill hundreds of thousands of people if effectively distributed via air or water, both of which, I may add, are conveniently proximate to the chemical plant that Miss Cross’ father runs in Hatcher’s Grove.”

Napoleon put the folder on the table and regarded the girl.

“How many canisters of this stuff did you say the man had – what was his name again?”

“Korg. And I didn’t say because I couldn’t tell. More than one, fewer than ten, I’d say.”

Illya hmmed. “Then they’re bound to have missed this one.”

“I didn’t take it on purpose. Although if I’d been thinking clearly at the time, I might’ve. I should’ve taken them all.”

“You had no way of knowing,” Napoleon said.

“Besides, they probably have more, or the means to manufacture it,” Illya said. “It’s better that you aroused as little suspicion as possible.”

“But I went to the police. They called the plant. My father told them everything was fine.”

“He did the right thing,” Napoleon said. “If those men are so quick to kill just to make an example, it’s smart of your father to cooperate.”

Annie shook his head. “You’re right, I know. Two hundred people work at that plant. They could kill them all with those weird laser guns. I still can’t believe what I saw.”

“I want you gentlemen to head up to Hatcher’s Grove and evaluate the situation,” Mr. Waverly said. “It may be a THRUSH plot – although annihilation of the entire human race is a bit grandiose for them – or it may be someone else, but it behooves us to take what steps we can to stop them.”

“We’ll leave immediately, sir,” Napoleon said, both agents standing.

Annie stood as well. “I’m coming too. It’s my father they’re holding. I know the town and the plant like the back of my hand. Maybe I can help.” Annie stopped herself when she became aware that no one was arguing.

“It’s a good idea,” Mr Waverly said before his men could object. “I’d also suggest a pot of strong coffee before either of you does any driving.”

**~*~*~**

Half an hour later Annie was in the back seat of a nondescript sedan dubiously eyeing the two UNCLE agents as they headed out of New York City.

“I hope you took your superior’s advice and had some coffee,” she said, trying not to sound as concerned as she was. The blond man was driving; he said nothing. The other turned to smile at her.

“No,” he said, “we didn’t have time. But we did both change clothes, and you’ll notice we no longer smell like walking distilleries.”

Annie sniffed cautiously. “Yes. But I was more concerned about how much went inside. No offense.” She didn’t want to antagonize a couple of international spies. Who knew what they might do to her? But she also didn’t relish dying in a drunken driving incident.

The blond man shot the other a look, but he simply shook his head, held two fingers up to her over the back of the front seat, and said, “Scout’s honor, we’re both sober. You were witnessing the results of spillage, not … ah … drinkage.”

The blond snorted. “It wasn’t spillage. It was … pourage.”

“Porridge?” Annie said, thoroughly confused. “It smelled like scotch.”

The dark haired man chuckled.

“I’m sorry,” Annie said then. “I’ve forgotten your names.”

“Understandable. You’ve been through a lot. I’m Napoleon Solo, and your chauffeur for the evening – who is always more sober than I – is Illya Kuryakin.”

“Forgive me for not shaking hands,” Illya said.

“That’s all right.” She stifled a yawn. “Listen, can I ask what you’re going to do when we get there?”

Napoleon shrugged. “Play it by ear.”

“They killed Dave Pinkerton for nothing. For _nothing_.” Annie shivered. “Just to show how mean they are.”

Illya said, “It wasn’t for nothing. They won’t have to do any more killing once they’ve shown their hostages they have no compunction about it. It’s standard operating procedure among the more ruthless criminal element.”

The agent’s dispassionate tone, coupled with the chilling facts she’d seen demonstrated earlier, made Annie shiver again.

“There’s a pillow and blanket there, Miss Cross,” Napoleon said, pointing. “Why don’t you try to get some sleep? We’ll be there in a few hours and we’ll have plenty of questions for you then.”

Annie kicked off her shoes, grabbed pillow and blanket and stretched out along the back seat, tucking herself in snugly. It was comfortable and warm, the ride smooth and quiet, and she found it lulling.

**~*~*~**

“What do you think?” Napoleon asked. “THRUSH?”

Illya considered. “I don’t think so. It does sound diabolical enough to be one of their schemes, but killing the factory manager up front like that isn’t their usual style.”

“Well, we could wait until we get a ransom demand,” Napoleon deadpanned. “Then we’d know who they are _and_ what they want.”

“Unless what they want is to do precisely what they’ve claimed.”

“But to what end?” Napoleon said. “I mean, where’s the money or power or profit in killing a few hundred thousand people? That would simply bring the U.S. military down on them with an atom bomb or something equally drastic.”

“If we’re dealing with lunatics – fanatics – those logical objections aren’t likely to stop them,” Illya said. “And if they’re able to release that chemical in sufficient quantities, we may be talking about more than a few hundred thousand dead.”

“As in?” Napoleon pressed on cue.

“As in … we may not be talking.” Illya paused for effect. “Nor anyone else on earth.”

Napoleon tried to grasp that image. “If their goal really is the annihilation of the human race, we can safely assume it isn’t THRUSH,” he said. “Which is almost a shame.”

Illya nodded. “I too would rather deal with the devil we know. Anyone who wants to destroy the world is unbalanced, therefore unpredictable and doubly dangerous.”

“I think their disregard for human life was pretty well demonstrated by their killing Pinkerton,” Napoleon said soberly.

“That’s one human life,” Illya countered. “Not all human life. Besides, we don’t really know …”

“What, you don’t believe Annie’s story?”

The Russian shook his head. “I’m not saying that. That isn’t what I was thinking about. I was thinking about lasers.”

“Typical,” Napoleon cracked. “I mention girls and you say lasers.”

Illya smiled briefly. “A hand-held laser is technology decades ahead of anything I’ve ever heard of.”

“And if you haven’t heard of it, no one has,” Napoleon muttered.

“If they have that kind of technology, why are they using this … underhanded method of … of doing whatever it is they’re doing?”

“Genocide or terrorism, you mean?” Napoleon asked, realizing what Illya was getting at. “Well, maybe the lasergun was a fraud.”

“Then what did Annie see?” Illya said.

Napoleon glanced into the backseat. The girl appeared to be asleep.

“She doesn’t seem the stupid or hysterical type,” he said. “She could be a good liar though. Or just mistaken.”

“We might as well defer that concern until we arrive in Hatcher’s Pond.”

“Grove,” Napoleon corrected.

“Grove Pond?” Illya scowled. “That’s a geographical impossibility.”

“It’s Hatcher’s Grove ….” Napoleon spotted Illya’s tiny smile. “Shut up and drive, you smart Ivan.”

“By the way, you owe me …” A brief pause as Illya calculated while Napoleon looked at him in puzzlement. “Two hundred and thirteen dollars.” Again the small smile. “American.”

“For what?” Napoleon exclaimed. “I haven’t borrowed any money from you in … weeks.”

Illya paused, struck by that fact. “That’s true. I can’t think which is less likely – that you’ve started being more careful with your money or that you’ve curtailed your expensive social life.” He grinned until Napoleon said, archly:

“Maybe I just got a raise. Ever think of that?”

“_I_ haven’t gotten one.”

“Well, I _am_ head of the section, and your work _has_ been rather shoddy of late, so of course in honesty I had to give Mr Waverly a less than glowing report …” Napoleon glanced sidelong at his partner, who wore the expression of a man who knew his friend couldn’t _mean_ it – but suspected he might just have _done_ it as a practical joke.

Finally Illya grumbled, “If that’s how you feel I might as well go back to Russia.”

Napoleon smacked his shoulder lightly. “Don’t pout. Come on. You know how hard it is breaking in a new partner. I’ll see if I can’t pad your next performance evaluation.”

“Pad?” Illya echoed. “If that means what I think it does –”

“I think it does,” Napoleon interjected.

Illya muttered something threatening in Russian.

“No fair going Slavic on me.”

“Sometimes I think you take me for granted,” Illya grumbled. “What would you do without me?”

“What would _you_ do without me to take you for granted?”

“I could get a partner who appreciates me.”

“You’ll never find a partner who appreciates you more than I do,” Napoleon said with a merry grin.

Illya shot him a look. “Somehow you made that into an insult.”

“I wouldn’t dream of insulting someone I’m going to be trusting my life to in the next few days.”

“Is that a prediction?”

“Pays to expect the worst. That’s why I always bring you along.”

“This sounds like a good time to negotiate that raise we were discussing,” Illya said, mollified.

“Let’s save it for when we get back,” Napoleon countered.

“Fair enough. After all, if I get killed I won’t care about the size of my paycheck.”

“And if _I_ get killed,” Napoleon said cheerfully, “you get an automatic promotion.”

“Very funny,” Illya groused. “You’d do anything to get out of paying me what you owe me.”

“What is all this about two hundred dollars?” Napoleon said, genuinely puzzled.

“Two hundred _thirteen_ dollars. My winnings from tonight’s poker game, my friend.”

“Ah.”

“Ah is right.”

“Well, we did have to leave in rather a hurry,” Napoleon defended himself.

“Of course. But since the whole evening was your idea …”

“You didn’t like Dori? Or was it Lori?” Napoleon smiled. “Not that there’s much difference.”

Illya shook his head. “They were everything a man might wish for in a girl – if the man is you.”

“Okay, now _I_ feel insulted. Here I was just trying to get you to share a little in the good life—”

“By whose definition?”

“—just trying to loosen you up a little, separate you from that dour Communist upbringing, offering you the delights of a free society, wine, women and song, nothing but your happiness in mind, and this is the thanks I get?”

“Yes, mother,” Illya said. “Sorry, mother.”

“After all,” Napoleon continued in a more normal tone, “What’s the point of having left that life behind if you insist on living the same life here?”

Knowing perfectly well that Napoleon knew the point – it _was_ different, in many important ways – Illya gave in to his partner’s real meaning, as he’d done a hundred times before.

“All right. I’ll try a little harder if you’ll promise to not push so hard. Fair enough?”

Napoleon grinned. “Fair enough.”

“Now about that $213 …”

“Capitalist,” Napoleon accused.

**~*~*~**

In the back seat, Annie shifted on her pillow and smiled. She was starting to like these two secret agents.

**~*~*~**

They rolled into Hatcher’s Grove a little after 3 a.m. Approached through a narrow cleft in low, wooded hills, the town was bucolic and picturesque even at night. Illya drove slowly through the outskirts, stopping in the deserted town square just as the clock in the city hall tower struck a quarter past.

Annie stirred and sat up. “Oh. We’re here.” She pushed the blanket off and got out of the car to stretch her legs. The agents exchanged a look and did the same.

“Pretty little town,” Napoleon observed.

“I lived here all my life until I went away to school five years ago. I still come home summers.”

“Is that the plant?” Illya indicated a pair of smokestacks, grey in the moonlight, visible about five miles away over the rooftops and trees.

“Yes. There’s only the one road from the highway through town to the factory. It stops there. We don’t get a lot of traffic, or a lot of strangers.”

“Shall we take a look?” Illya suggested.

Annie looked alarmed.

“We’d be less conspicuous during the day,” Napoleon replied. “Assuming they have some sort of guards posted.” He looked into the cloud-spotted sky, then at the clock tower. “We’ve got a few hours ‘til dawn. Shall we take advantage of that by finding someplace to sleep? We can have a little strategy session when the sun comes up, then take an accidental wrong turn or two and have a look around the plant.”

“I’d still like to get at least a look at the place now,” Illya countered. “Miss Cross, is there a spot where we can perhaps overlook the plant from a safe distance?”

Annie considered. “There’s a bluff about half a mile away. If you had binoculars or something—”

“I’d be willing to bet he has them,” Napoleon muttered.

“Just a quick look,” Illya promised. “Then you can get your beauty sleep.”

Annie drove; the route involved a dirt road that skirted the town and climbed up into the hill for a few miles. When a clear, flat grassy area became visible in the headlights, she stopped the car and turned off lights and engine.

“Ah.” Napoleon smiled. “Lookout point?”

Annie grinned. “Luckily it’s a school night.”

Illya went to the trunk and came back with two pair of binoculars. “Sorry I don’t have an extra pair,” he said to Annie. “I wasn’t expecting company.”

“That’s okay,” she said. “I know what the plant looks like.”

They swished through the tall grass to the edge of the bluff, where some thoughtful soul had lined up a row of whitewashed stones to keep the inattentive from plunging over the edge. The few town lights twinkled off to their left, southward. Before them in a broad meadow ran a river, black in the darkness; beside it squatted the plant. Rectangular, concrete, functionally ugly, it sat in the middle of its own cyclone-fenced parking lot, made visible by bright, well-spaced security lights.

After folding himself into a sitting position on the damp grass and peering through the binoculars, Illya made a sound.

“What?”

“Nothing. It’s just smaller than I expected.”

“You’re the one who said they didn’t need to distribute much of this stuff,” Napoleon said, sitting crosslegged on the grass and resting his elbows on his knees to steady the binoculars.

**~*~*~**

Annie sat between and a little behind them. She could smell the grass and trees around her; less clearly came the smoky chemical stink from the factory. As she looked down she realized she’d always thought of it – more accurately, felt about it – as if it were a good homey place. Familiarity, she supposed, could make even an ugly chemical plant comforting.

But that feeling was gone. The place squatted there like a ticking bomb now, dangerous, unpredictable.

“How many people work there?” Illya asked.

“About 200.”

“Shifts?”

“Regular shift is six to three, with an hour for lunch. Swing is three to midnight. No graveyard shift any more. They shut it down eight years ago when the economy took a downturn. Seventy men lost their jobs.”

Napoleon lowered the binoculars to smile at her. “You’re better than the chamber of commerce.”

Annie shrugged. “It’s a small town. Everyone knows what I just told you.”

“Only one way in or out,” Illya remarked.

“Yes – see how the road dead ends there?” Annie pointed. “That’s the loading docks. They were going to put the road all the way through the floor of the valley—” She pointed north— “and into Duggansville, but there wasn’t any money for it.”

“How far is Duggansville?” Napoleon asked.

“Thirty miles and about that many people.”

“Of course, roads are not the only way to get somewhere,” Illya said.

“Yes. They could easily land a helicopter on that pavement,” Napoleon agreed.

“There was no helicopter,” Annie said. “I came out into the parking lot while they were still here. If there had been a helicopter there’s no way I could have missed seeing it.”

“A car is much less conspicuous,” Illya said. “Who would notice one or two unfamiliar cars in a lot that size?”

Napoleon rested the binoculars on his knee. “Well, unless we’re planning to storm the place now, I think we need to find a safe place to hole up.”

“I was thinking about that,” Annie said. “There’s only the one hotel in town. If you want the entire town to know you’re here, that’s the place to stay.”

“I’d prefer a little more anonymity,” Napoleon said.

“My father’s car is still there.” She pointed. “It’s the blue two-door right by the loading dock ramp. See? That’s where he always parks.”

“Strange.” Napoleon peered at the car through the binoculars. “Could they still be in there?”

“Do you think—” Annie’s question was cut off by Illya’s sudden intake of breath. Napoleon glanced at his partner – suddenly stiff, binoculars pressed to his face – and lifted his own field glasses.

“Napoleon,” Illya said slowly. “Tell me I’m not seeing what I’m seeing. There, in the parking lot.”

“My God …” Napoleon lowered the binoculars, unwilling to trust anything between his eyes and the … thing … he was seeing, but from this distance, in the dark, it was only a huge grey shape in the parking lot. He raised the glasses again.

A … a thing sat in the lot. Huge, dark, vaguely shaped like a bird …

“Is it a plane of some sort?” Illya ventured.

“I have no idea. I’ve never seen anything like … hold it. There’s something moving down there.” Not breathing, he watched several shapes move out from under the thing, walking toward the factory.

“What is it?” Annie asked.

“Whatever it is,” Illya said, “it wasn’t there a minute ago.”

“Four – no – five men,” Napoleon hissed. “Or people, anyway … are going into the plant.”

“Keep an eye on them,” Illya said, “I’m going to watch that … thing.”

“They’re walking under the lights,” Napoleon said, handing the binoculars to Annie. “See if you recognize any of them.”

Annie took the binoculars – small but unexpectedly heavy – and peered down at the plant. It took her a moment to find the little knot of movement under the parking lot lights.

“It’s my father!” Ben Cross entered the plant at the center of a circle of those men. “I think that one at the back is the leader, Korg, but I’m not sure. They kind of … .well, I didn’t get a very good look before.” The view of the closing plant door wobbled as she lowered her trembling hands and gave Napoleon the binoculars. “They’ve gone inside.”

“Is your father all right?” Napoleon asked.

“He looked okay. Scared.”

“There is no need for them to hurt him if he’s cooperating,” Illya said. “They’re trying to keep up the appearance of normalcy.”

“That thing,” Napoleon said with feeling. “Is not normal in any sense of the word I’m familiar with.” He looked at Annie, patted her hand gently.

“Don’t worry. Illya’s right. They have no reason to hurt him. They need him alive. And we’ll do all we can to get him out of there.”

Surprised at the kindness of the gesture, Annie gave him an unsteady smile. “What are you going to do?”

“It’s gone!” Illya said. Napoleon whipped his glasses to his face. The parking lot was empty again save for Cross’s blue coupe.

“It just disappeared,” Illya said.

“Were you looking right at it?” Napoleon asked. Illya gave him a look and Napoleon held up a hand in surrender.

“Okay, okay. It disappeared. That’s no stranger than the way it appeared in the first place, after all.”

Both agents fell silent for a moment; Annie imagined she could hear them thinking, planning.

“We need to get inside,” Illya said.

“Shift change would be the best time,” Annie said. “It’s kind of chaotic for about 20 minutes.”

“Chaotic enough that no one would notice new faces?” Napoleon asked.

She shook her head. “No. The town’s too small. Someone’s bound to notice that you’re strangers. But the noticing won’t be as noticeable, if you see what I mean.”

Napoleon gave her a smile, thinking. “That’s five hours away, though. A lot can happen in that time.”

“I for one could use a nap,” Illya said, lowering his own binoculars. “Even in the car.”

“If my dad’s down there, our house is empty. If we get there before sunrise no one will see us. To be honest I could use some rest myself. And food.” She wondered if they’d think her callous, but the truth was, now that she’d seen her father, seen he was okay, she felt a little calmer, and her body was letting her know how long it had been since she’d eaten and rested.

Napoleon got up off the ground. “Sounds perfect. Let’s go.”

Illya rose as well. “I’d like to get a look inside that thing, whatever it is.” He glanced back – longingly, Annie thought – at the plant.

“Be careful what you wish for,” she said.

**~*~*~**

“Captain.”

Kirk turned. Uhura, scowling faintly, had one hand to her earpiece. “Sir, I’m picking up an interesting transmission, on a very unusual frequency.”

“Put it on audio, lieutenant,” Kirk said.

After a crackle of static – from source limitations, not from the Enterprise’s equipment – a man’s voice, American, came over the audio.

“... really couldn’t make out any details, but it was like nothing I’ve ever seen before.”

Another voice, British, dry, responded.

“That’s not a very satisfying description, Mr. Solo.”

“Yes sir. Hold on.”

The voice changed, another man with an accent Kirk couldn’t immediately identify. Spock rose from his station to stand next to Kirk’s command chair, listening with one brow cocked.

“Kuryakin here, sir. The thing is some kind of metal, light in color, approximately 300 feet in length, slightly less in width and about 75 feet in height. It has a broad, arced main body and a large frontal protrusion in the shape of a tank gun, though much larger. Please keep in mind this is a very rough description, sir.”

To Kirk, Spock said quietly, “On the contrary, that is a reasonably accurate illustration of a Klingon Bird of Prey.”

“We only saw it for a moment, sir.” The other voice came back on. “It disappeared.”

“What?”

“Disappeared. It disgorged five men – one of them the plant manager, Mr. Cross – who walked into the plant, then the thing itself ... sort of wavered and vanished.”

“Could it be some sort of air or space craft?” the British voice said.

“It’s possible, sir. It’s also extremely unlikely that it’s coincidental, this thing sitting invisible in the parking lot of that plant.”

“Yes, Mr. Solo. You know I don’t believe in coincidence. But that sort of technology suggests someone even more dangerous than our usual foes. I suggest you and Mr. Kuryakin take extreme care. Reconnoiter, but if you need back up – up to and including the U.S. military – do be so good as to let me know. No heroics.”

“No, sir. We wouldn’t think of it.” The amusement in the man’s voice was plain. Kirk, smiling slightly, glanced at Spock. The eyebrow rose a little higher but Spock said nothing.

“Yes.” The dry British voice went on. “I should know better by now than to waste my breath with that request. Keep me posted, gentlemen, and don’t blow up the town or get yourselves killed if you can help it. The paperwork is most tedious. Out.”

Silence.

Uhura removed her earpiece. “That’s the end of the transmission, sir, but I have the location: northeastern United States. I also recorded the conversation if you’d like to hear the beginning of it. It was a minute before I realized what they were referring to.”

“Thank you, lieutenant. For the moment, does anyone have any ideas that might help us?”

Spock returned to his station, requesting that Uhura send him the site coordinates.

Uhura said, “They sound as though they’re some sort of law enforcement personnel.”

“My American history is a little rusty, captain,” Chekov said, “but wasn’t it unusual for an American to be working with a Russian during this era?”

“Was that a Russian accent?” Kirk said with mock innocence.

“Of course, captain,” Chekov said proudly. “I would know it anywhere.”

Spock spoke from his terminal. “The site is a chemical plant, a small one, in what was the state of Vermont. It’s a very sparsely populated area.”

“A chemical plant? That doesn’t bode well.” Kirk rose. “Mr. Sulu, you have the con. Spock, come with me. Uhura, get ... Lieutenant Dietrich and Dr. McCoy and have them meet us in the briefing room immediately.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

**~*~*~**

Kirk, Spock, McCoy, and ship’s historian Lt. Dietrich listened to the entire recording of the conversation, which offered few additional details.

“What do you think?” Kirk asked the historian, a tall, serious-faced brunette woman, not much like their last – rather colorful – ship’s historian, Marla McGivers.

Dietrich folded her hands on the table, scowling. “Well, given the era, the combination of American and Russian, the unusual transmission frequency, and the fact that their superior officer himself has no rank but implied they had access to assistance from the U.S. military, I’d suggest the men are agents with some international organization. Interpol or UNCLE, possibly. The details of these groups can be sketchy, due to their very nature, and it’s also possible they work for some even more secret branch of the CIA or the FBI, a branch of which no details survive.”

McCoy said, “You’re telling us, though, that they’re probably the good guys?”

Dietrich smiled, briefly making herself lovely. “That would be my working hypothesis.”

Kirk shook his head. “I hate the idea of two ordinary men taking on a Klingon Bird of Prey. Obviously their organization knows something is wrong at that plant, but that transmission makes it clear they have no idea yet what they’re dealing with.”

Dietrich smiled again. “Captain, if they work for Interpol or UNCLE, they’re probably not ordinary men. However, as there is no record of alien contact in this era, it is indeed unlikely they’ve ever encountered a situation like this before.”

“If we have their location, why don’t you just destroy them?” McCoy said.

“We have the location of the agents’ transmission,” Spock said. “The Klingon ship is cloaked. We only know approximately where it is. If we used phasers or photon torpedoes there is a reasonable chance of high human casualties.”

“We do have the prime directive to consider,” Kirk said, “Even though it’s our own planet. I’d rather attempt to deal with this in a less ... obtrusive way, if possible.”

“‘No heroics,’” McCoy quoted.

“Spock,” Kirk said, ignoring the doctor’s well-aimed jibe. “You and I will go down first, see what’s going on, if there’s not some way we can stop the Klingons without drawing the whole planet’s attention. “I think it’s time we took a closer look at what’s going on down there.”

McCoy snorted. “You mean you want to be where all the action is.”

“Sir,” Dietrich said. “Request permission to accompany the away team.”

Kirk considered.

“It’s the opportunity of a lifetime for a historian, sir,” she said, her eagerness just visible under firm control.

“Not just yet, lieutenant. I want to evaluate the situation first.” He rose, and the others followed suit. “Have ship’s stores generate some appropriate clothing.”

“Not the old knit cap routine,” McCoy joked. “Or are you going to try the mechanical rice-picker story again?”

Spock gave McCoy a cool look.

Kirk grinned. “I think a hat will be sufficient.”

**~*~*~**

The next afternoon two well-rested and fed agents rolled down the long road leading from Hatcher’s Grove in a line with many other cars on their way to the swing shift at the chemical plant. Napoleon wore his customary impeccable suit. Illya was more casually dressed in black pants and sweater.

“You’re going to stick out like a banker at a rodeo in that suit,” he jibed.

“If the town is so small they notice every stranger,” Napoleon returned, “it hardly matters what the stranger’s wearing, does it?”

Illya hmmed, which Napoleon considered an admission of defeat. After a moment he said, wondering, “A banker at a rodeo?”

Illya shrugged. “For instance.”

They followed the flow of cars, then, once parked, the flow of bodies into the plant. From this vantage they saw that temporary fencing, complete with a padlocked gate, had been hastily erected at one side of the parking lot.

“I suppose it wouldn’t do to have people driving into that invisible – whatever it is,” Napoleon said out of the corner of his mouth they entered the building. Workers flowed in and out, chattering, laughing, complaining. Obviously they had no idea anything was wrong. A few people eyed them curiously, but no one spoke to them.

Inside they slid past the line at the time clock and ducked into a dark alcove. The air was cool and heavy with a sharp chemical tang. The room seemed dim after the bright summer sun outside. Machinery hummed, clanged, and thumped in the background.

“Do you still have the map Annie drew for us?” Napoleon asked, scanning the crowd of workers.

“In my head,” Illya said. Napoleon smiled.

“Considering how angry she was when you told her she couldn’t come along, you’re lucky it’s not in some other personal cavity.”

Illya grimaced. “Your two years’ seniority should not give you the right to always delegate the role of bad cop to me.”

“Rank hath its privileges, old boy. Besides, your scowl is so much more convincing than mine.”

Illya nodded in the direction of the factory floor. “The offices should be across there.”

As far as Napoleon could tell, everything proceeded as it should in any small manufactory – people chattered and griped as they set up their various work stations, donning protective coats or gloves or coveralls, getting coffee. He felt no underlying tension as he crossed the room. Occasionally he glimpsed Illya in the distance, using a similar technique to traverse the factory floor. Short casual strolls, pauses, direction changes – all designed to seem aimless and to keep as much as possible out of sight of anyone who might be observing from the offices on the mezzanine level. The curtains remained closed, but from this distance there was no telling if someone might be watching through a narrow slit.

Napoleon’s scanning eyes passed over a couple of men standing by some pipes across the factory floor … paused … moved back. Body language … some tension he’d spotted unconsciously. He edged closer, back against the curved metal of a huge tank, and took a quick glimpse around its blue-painted bulk.

Two men, one pale, fearful looking, the other big, dark and hairy, heavy-browed, smiling as he gestured at a grouping of large pipes running the length of the factory floor. Napoleon drew back, fingers itching for his Special, and listened.

“—day, perhaps two, your people will inject the chemical into the system. Then—” The man laughed, and Napoleon’s hand inched closer to his gun – “we will be done with you, and you with us.” He laughed again, deep and brutal, like a lion’s cough.

“What … what is it going to do?” Cross asked.

“Aha – finally a show of curiosity. I was wondering if any of you humans possessed spines.” His gratingly jocular tone turned dark with contempt. “A Klingon would die before betraying his race as you have done.”

Napoleon heard no response from Cross, which was frustrating. If the man would only ask a few more questions maybe Napoleon could learn something about who these people were, whether they were after blackmail or – as was sounding more likely – annihilation.

“Who are you people?” Cross finally asked – more plea than demand. “Why are you doing this?”

Attention still on the two men, Napoleon noticed his partner trotting up the stairs to the mezzanine level.

“I see no reason not to tell you other than pity, and Klingons do not waste time on such things. Quite simply, we are going to destroy you humans once and for all.”

_Humans?_

A shout and a weird, high-pitched siren shriek jolted Napoleon upright. He spotted Illya plunging down the stairs with two huge men behind him, one holding what looked like a child’s toy raygun. He took aim at Illya’s back but the other knocked his hand down, shouting something in a language Napoleon didn’t recognize.

“Come with me.” The man with Cross grabbed his arm and dragged him toward the stairs. Napoleon drew his gun and ducked. Illya was now nowhere in sight.

In the noise and busyness of the plant no one had even noticed the brief uproar. Napoleon worked his way around the tanks, angling for a better view of possible escape routes – for Illya and himself.

The man with Cross was hauling him up the stairs while three of his hulking compatriots spread out across the plant floor, obviously seeking Illya. Napoleon saw no weapons, but any one of them had about 6 inches and 60 pounds on the Russian.

_“We are going to destroy you humans once and for all.”_

Napoleon began a dodging race amongst noisy machinery and startled workers. _Not if I can help it – and you won’t be destroying my partner either._

**~*~*~**

Illya raced across an open expanse of factory floor, hearing the heavy clank of booted feet on the metal stairs behind him, and darted down a hallway. First door – storeroom, too small to hide in, no windows. Next, the men’s room, empty, dingy, windowless. Next – a short shriek pierced his eardrums.

“Sorry!” He quickly ascertained there was no other way out past the much affronted woman who stood at the sink washing her hands.

“This is the—” she had time to snap before he let the door close, continuing up the corridor.

He paused at a T-junction, ducking to one side to flatten himself against the wall. A heavy, angry voice shouted in the distance, words he couldn’t understand, nor link even vaguely to any of the many languages he knew.

He reached automatically for his gun – then stopped. He didn’t want to start a firefight in a building full of chemicals and innocent people – not unless he absolutely had to.

Two female workers walked past, giving him identical idly curious looks. He smiled at them.

“Good afternoon.”

They exchanged a glance and continued up the hall toward the ladies room. Illya started in the opposite direction, down a long white corridor lined with doors. Irritated, he knew that trying to get back into that office now was a waste of time – his best option was to make a break for it, get out, and try again later. If possible.

**~*~*~**

They beamed to a corner of the plant parking lot where a large vehicle blocked line of sight to the Klingon ship and the plant building. From there they began carefully working their way closer. It was difficult with the ship being cloaked – Kirk had to imagine its presence and theorize about whether they were safely out of sight as he and Spock darted from vehicle to vehicle.

They were within about 30 feet of a door when it slammed open. They ducked, then peered through the windows of their current hiding place to see a small blond man pause, look around, and dive for a collection of steel barrels. He crouched behind them, out of view of the door – and the ship, Kirk noticed – but within sight of himself and Spock. He reached into his jacket with both hands, drawing out a hand weapon with one and a small, slim, silvery object with the other. He held the silvery object to his lips.

**~*~*~**

“Open Channel D. Napoleon?”

A brief crackle, then, “Illya? Where are you?”

“Outside – had to dodge some of the ugliest plug-uglies I’ve ever seen.”

“Given your dating history, that’s saying something. Let me find the door and I’ll rush heroically to your aid.”

“I’ll make sure my health plan is up to date.” Illya scanned the parking lot. “OK. I’m going to try to make a break for it. I’ll meet you at the car.”

**~*~*~**

“That’s the _agent_?” Kirk eyed the slight blond dubiously. “He looks like a kid.”

A Klingon burst through the door, spotted the blond man and lunged. The blond dove under his huge grasping hands and drove a brace of sharp jabs to his solid midsection, and a roundhouse to the face. The Klingon doubled over with a grunt and the man downed him with a vicious chop to the neck. He stepped back, drawing his gun, and rolled across the hood of a nearby car, ducking behind it to await the others.

The next two pursuers took some sort of projectiles in the neck – bullets, perhaps, in this era, though the sound was softer than Kirk recalled –and fell one after the other beside their cohort.

Spock glanced at Kirk, one brow arched.

Kirk shrugged. “I retract my remark.”

**~*~*~**

Napoleon carefully pushed the heavy door open and slipped out. Damn – he was on the other side of the building, as far as he could tell. He took off at a run, ears and eyes focused ahead for any sounds of battle.

He’d gone three strides when the distinctive pop of UNCLE mercy bullets being fired hit his ears up ahead. He raced to the corner, ducked, and peered around.

**~*~*~**

Illya scanned the building quickly for more pursuers – just long enough for someone large to slam into his back and pound him to the asphalt, gun and communicator flying. _Must have come from that … thing_ he thought, twisting and rolling to get away, get some traction. He got his feet under him and gulped in a breath, then dove for his gun – too late.

Two men, each half a foot taller and 60 pounds heavier than he, grabbed his arms before he could get to his gun. With bruising strength they lifted him off the ground and carried him toward the exit door.

Another banged through the heavy metal door into the parking lot, a raygun in his hand. Everything about him spoke that he was in command; Illya zeroed in on him as he spotted and strode toward them.

He stopped, looked Illya up and down, and said, almost pleasantly, “Who are you? You are not one of these spineless _nuch_. But you are a human.”

The other two set Illya on his feet - barely.

“I seem to have that advantage over you and your … associates,” he said. One of said associates moved to backhand him. He ducked the blow, grabbed the massive arm and yanked it up and back – the man roared and his colleague slid a heavy forearm around Illya’s neck.

Illya let go the man he’d caught and was dangled like a fish once more.

**~*~*~**

A full parking lot, like a full magazine, was most useful, Napoleon decided as he worked his way toward the tableau. It hadn’t occurred to these huge uglies, apparently, that Illya might not be alone. He crept closer.

**~*~*~**

The leader smiled at the agent. “No. You are _not_ one of them.” He gestured contemptuously at the factory. “Who are you? How did you learn of us?”

“If I tell you,” Illya asked, playing for time – he knew Napoleon was around here somewhere, “will you let me go?”

The leader’s smile broadened, piranha-like. “Certainly.”

Illya permitted a faint smile of his own and the leader laughed.

“I almost like you, human. You have _qajunpaQ_.”

**~*~*~**

Napoleon slipped around a convenient bumper, stood straight, and leveled his gun at Korg’s back. “Let him go.”

Korg spun, taut – then, unexpectedly, grinned at Napoleon, a predatory unveiling of long yellow teeth.

“Another one. Another warrior on this planet of cowards.” He faced Napoleon more fully, his disruptor slightly lowered. “And if I do not order them to release your friend?”

Napoleon smiled slightly. “Then I kill you and resume negotiations with your … ah … successor.”

Korg guffawed.

**~*~*~**

“Doesn’t he realize the disruptor is a weapon?” Kirk hissed. “What’s he thinking?” He flipped open his communicator. “Scotty.”

“Aye sir.”

“Four to beam up, and fast – but not ‘til I give the word.” He paused. “We need to get them away from the Klingons – or vice versa. I don’t want to give our presence away.”

Scott said, “I could create some sort o distraction … mebbe a wee explosion somewhere around a corner that’ll draw their attention?”

Kirk smiled. “Scotty, I like the way you think. Locate the humans – and Spock – within a 20-foot radius of my signal. Have fun with your distraction, then transport at my order.”

“Aye sir.”

Kirk closed the communicator.

Spock said, as if idly, “The Prime Directive forbids such interference, sir.”

“The Klingons don’t belong here. We’re not interfering with the normal life of the planet any more than they are. Besides—” Although he’d never admit it to Spock – who probably wouldn’t understand if he did – Kirk felt admiration for the bravado, and the true courage, the UNCLE agents were showing in the face of this alien threat.

“Besides,” Spock finished the sentence, resigned, “they are what I believe is termed ‘the good guys’.”

Jim glanced at him, smiling. Sometimes even he forgot how well Spock understood humans. Him particularly.

**~*~*~**

“If this is the best this planet has to offer, we shall have no doubt of our victory,” Korg gloated.

Napoleon and Illya exchanged a lightning glance acknowledging that he had a point. It was a standoff, although Napoleon was confident he could shoot Korg before Korg’s men could kill Illya. Despite that, he didn’t want to start a shooting battle if he could avoid it.

“Couldn’t we talk about this in a little more civilized manner?” he suggested, without much hope.

“Klingons do not talk,” Korg declaimed. “Klingons conquer.” He centered his laser-gun on Napoleon and Napoleon’s finger tightened on the trigger.

A blast – like dynamite – slammed their ears. All five men started and turned in the direction of the sound. Smoke was pouring from around the corner of the building.

Neither agent, though, failed to take instant advantage – Napoleon jumped at the men holding Illya, who twisted, kicked, and slithered free with his partner’s help. They dove away from the roaring aliens toward the cover of the nearest parked car – heard a piercing blast as one of the aliens fired at them – and kept scrambling until they’d put a few cars between themselves and their foe.

**~*~*~**

“Locked on,” Scotty said.

Intently watching the fracas, Kirk hissed, “Now, Scotty.”

**~*~*~**

Napoleon blinked as the world grew sparkling and fuzzy ... then it was gone ... then the sparkles returned, fading to reveal a very different setting. He stood, a little dizzy and nauseated, on a raised platform in a bare metal-walled room, looking at a man in a red shirt who stood behind a console. Illya stood a few feet away, gun still in hand; he pointed it at the red-shirted man.

Fingers snaked over Illya’s shoulder and pressed – Illya collapsed, revealing the tall man in the cap behind him. Napoleon whipped out his own UNCLE Special, leveling it at Illya’s attacker, who had caught his limp form and was easing him to the floor.

“Don’t!” came the command from behind him, as a strong hand came down on his wrist, forcing the gun down. Napoleon twisted and backed into his attacker, grabbing the man’s wrist and flipping him over one shoulder. The man went over and hit with a grunt and a solid thud, then rolled and twisted to regard Napoleon – and the UNCLE Special now pointed steadily at him – with some surprise. He glanced to the left and said:

“Spock – no, it’s all right.”

Napoleon also glanced over. The tall man in the cap was holding a little box pointed at him. Although it didn’t look like a weapon, the way the man was holding it indicated that he, at least, thought it was one.

“It’s all right,” the man on the floor said, this time to Napoleon, in a soothing tone that seemed to the UNCLE agent rather inappropriate considering whose gun was pointed at whom.

“Your friend isn’t hurt. We aren’t going to hurt you. Please put that thing away so Mr. Spock doesn’t have to stun you. We need to talk.”

Napoleon considered. He didn’t like the odds. He also didn’t like the very unsettled feeling in his stomach that told him that thing in the plant parking lot was not a hoax, and that these people knew more about it than he did.

He holstered the gun and extended a hand. The man on the floor smiled and accepted the help to his feet.

**~*~*~**

In the briefing room, Napoleon watched with some concern as the tall man carried Illya in as if he weighed no more than a wool coat, laying him gently into a chair. Napoleon sat beside his partner, who was still out cold. They hadn’t been disarmed or searched, which was unusual in these sorts of situations. He didn’t know whether that complacency boded well or ill.

The man he’d thrown came in after, followed by a dark-haired man, and the woman who’d been on that platform in the other room with them. She sat down, regarding both agents with serious intent. The dark-haired man stood near the man Napoleon had thrown, also looking at the agents with open curiosity. Napoleon listened to their conversation interestedly.

**~*~*~**

“These are the spies?” the McCoy asked. “What are they doing up here?”

“It was that or leave them to the Klingons,” Kirk said, working his shoulder ruefully. “Although, considering the thanks I got for saving them ...”

“Threw you like an Aurigan zero-g wrestler, Scotty said,” McCoy commented gleefully.

Kirk smiled, although the fact of it did rankle. It also rankled that word of his ignominious defeat had already spread around the ship. “I should’ve been prepared, too. I thought I was. I got a preview of their unarmed combat skills down on the planet. And Dietrich said they weren’t likely to be ordinary men.”

**~*~*~**

_Down on the ... planet_? Napoleon thought.

Illya stirred and moaned; Napoleon grasped his arm as the blue eyes opened.

“You all right?”

Illya looked around. Then he sat up straighter and looked around. Then he looked around some more.

“I’m not sure,” he admitted finally.

“Before you ask, I don’t know,” Napoleon said.

Illya closed his mouth, recommenced looking around.

“Gentlemen,” the man Napoleon had thrown addressed them. He and the others sat down across the table.

“I apologize for the ... abrupt transfer. It was done for your own protection.”

“May we know whom to thank for this protection?” Illya said with frosty politeness.

“I am Captain James Kirk. This –” He indicated the tall man in the cap – “is my first officer, Mr. Spock. This –” He indicated the other – “is our chief medical officer, Dr. Leonard McCoy, and this is Lieutenant Lora Dietrich, ship’s historian.” The woman smiled charmingly at them.

“Ship?” Illya echoed. Napoleon’s stomach lurched as he recalled again ... _Down on the planet._

“Where are we?” he demanded to know.

Kirk raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “This may be difficult for you to understand, or believe. We’re currently in orbit around Earth, on the Federation Starship Enterprise.”

The agents absorbed that statement. Illya said, “That thing at the plant is a ... starship too?”

“Yes. Not the same as this one. The Enterprise wasn’t built for planetary landings. It’s considerably larger than the Klingon Bird of Prey.”

“Where are you people from?” Napoleon asked.

“Here,” Kirk said. Then, with a glance at Spock, he smiled slightly. “Well, not all of us are from here.”

Taking the opportunity, Spock removed the cap. The agents’ double-take was identical, but they controlled whatever they might have been feeling at the sight of an alien seated three feet from them.

“That ship down there,” Napoleon said, “if that’s what it is, is far beyond any technology we know of.”

“Yes, it is. But the Klingon ship is not from Earth. Let me try to explain this in some kind of order. We – excluding Mr Spock here – are from Earth. The Earth of your future. The Klingons are also from the future. In our time, man has spread throughout the galaxy, and has found that he is not alone. Some of the other races are friendly. Some are not. The Klingons are not friendly.”

“That’s like calling the Pacific Ocean damp,” McCoy put in.

“They’ve come back in time,” Kirk continued, “to destroy the human race before it has a chance to develop FTL travel and journey to other planets. We followed them to prevent it, for obvious reasons.”

Napoleon spread his hands. “Don’t let us stop you.”

Kirk smiled. “We won’t. We just don’t yet know exactly how they plan to do it.”

“You have weaponry of a similar sort to theirs?” Illya asked.

“Yes, similar,” Kirk acknowledged.

“Then why have you not simply destroyed them and their ship?” the Russian asked. “No higher value is placed on enemy life in the future than in the present, I presume.”

“Yes, you do,” Spock said coolly.

Kirk ignored the remarks. “We would prefer to disrupt things in this time as little as possible. In fact we serve under an injunction to not ... tamper with other cultures. This Earth is, to us, another culture. We don’t want to blast an entire town off the face of the Earth if we can find a quieter way of stopping the Klingons. For a start, there’s no way of knowing how that might affect – even destroy – our own future. For obvious reasons we don’t want that to happen.”

“Klingons,” Illya mused. “They appear human.”

“Humanoid,” Spock put in. “Not human.”

Regarding the Vulcan curiously, Illya said, “What was that thing you did to me?” He touched his own shoulder briefly.

“The Vulcan nerve pinch,” Spock said, rather apologetically. “It was preferable to allowing you to shoot our chief engineer.”

“Can you teach me that?” Illya asked. Napoleon and Kirk chuckled – then stopped, looking at one another in surprise.

“Who do you work for?” Lt. Dietrich asked, startling them. In her silence they’d forgotten her presence.

“UNCLE,” Napoleon said, smiling at her. “Anything more you’ll have to torture me to get.”

“We’re not going to harm you,” Kirk said. “What I’ve told you is the truth, though I understand that you might have a hard time believing it.”

“It’s easier to believe after having seen that ship down there,” Illya said. “How is it it can appear and disappear like that? Can all your vessels do that?”

“No,” Kirk said, “I’m afraid our vessels can’t do it at all. The cloaking device is at present a secret known only to the Romulans and the Klingons. What we would like to do is remove the Klingons and their ship, and rectify any damage they might already have done, with as little disruption to normal life as possible.”

“Why did you bring us here?” Illya asked.

“Because you were a split second away from being vaporized by a Klingon disruptor,” Kirk said.

“Not that we expect gratitude or anything,” McCoy said under his breath.

“But doesn’t bringing us onto your spaceship disrupt the natural timeline?” Illya pressed.

Napoleon leaned over, said in a stage whisper, “Don’t make waves, Illya. They saved our lives, and you’re carping about space-time?”

“It is a complication,” Kirk admitted. “But not as unpleasant as allowing unnecessary death. It’s possible we can help each other.”

“Ah,” Napoleon said. “The pitch.”

Kirk smiled. “Well, yes. I wouldn’t involve you at all except that you’re apparently professional law enforcement agents, and – all too obviously – perfectly capable of taking care of yourselves.” He rubbed his shoulder – it no longer hurt, but it made the point that he hadn’t forgotten Napoleon’s throw.

“Sorry about that,” Napoleon said.

“It was an understandable reaction,” Spock put in. Kirk shot him a betrayed look, seeing the glint in the Vulcan’s dark eyes that was as near as he usually came to laughter.

“Not you too?” Shaking his head, Kirk again addressed the agents. “In any case: You are familiar with this time. We are familiar with the Klingons. Perhaps we can work together to excise them from this time and place with as little discomfort as possible.”

“Can you prove what you’ve claimed?” Illya said bluntly.

Kirk looked at his other officers, who looked back in silence. Then he rose. “Gentlemen, I believe there is time for a brief tour of the ship. If that doesn’t persuade you, I don’t know what would.”

**~*~*~**

The doors slid apart and Kirk and Spock moved past the agents to their stations.

“Report, Mr Sulu.” Kirk settled into his chair, aware the agents still stood by the turbolift doors, absorbing their surroundings.

“No change, sir,” Sulu said. “The Klingons are keeping their ship cloaked and have not charged their weapons.”

The two UNCLE men slowly moved away from the turbolift.

“Any communications, Uhura?” Both Napoleon and Illya looked at the beautiful communications officer as she answered.

“No sir. Nothing from the Klingons—” she smiled ruefully – “hardly surprising since they have no one to talk _to_ in this time – and no transmissions from any planetary source indicating knowledge of, or actions by, them …” She trailed off as she became aware of the agents’ scrutiny.

Kirk got up, circling the back of his chair. “Gentlemen, this is Lieutenant Uhura, my communications officer.”

She looked at them interestedly. “How do you do, gentlemen?”

Napoleon bowed and took her hand to gently kiss it, raising a charming smile on her face.

“How do you do, lieutenant. I’m glad to see that pulchritude suffers no setbacks in the 23rd century.” He echoed her smile. “In fact, it seems humankind has advanced in that area as well.”

Illya took her hand in turn, as she was still staring in surprise at Napoleon, and bowed over it. “How do you do, lieutenant.”

Kirk indicated the helm. “My helmsman, Lieutenant Sulu, and navigator, Ensign Chekov.”

Both men turned to nod at the UNCLE agents.

Illya, surprised, said, “_Russkiy_?” and took a few steps closer.

Chekov’s face lit up. “_Da_!” He went off into a stream of Russian, so fast that even Napoleon, who had some skill in the tongue, couldn’t follow him. Illya answered, more reserved, and the young officer continued enthusiastically.

“Mr Chekov,” Kirk’s gentle remonstrance instantly silenced the officer.

“Sorry, sir.” He grinned at Illya and turned back to his console. Napoleon let his gaze run across the incomprehensibly complicated control console, thinking Kirk ran a tight ship. He sidled over to Illya, who was perusing the helmsman’s station.

“Pretty convincing,” he said, knowing his tone wouldn’t fool his partner – they were both convinced, and shaken, by the whole situation. “I can’t imagine anyone going to all this trouble just to fool us.”

“That’s quite an admission from a man with as high an opinion of himself as you,” Illya countered as he straightened up from his close examination of the panel. The helmsman – Napoleon had forgotten his name – chuckled.

“Your putative pay increase is fast diminishing, tovarish,” Napoleon muttered.

“I’ll remember that next time I’m thinking about taking a bullet for you.”

Napoleon glanced at him, brows raised. “I never realized you thought before doing that.”

Illya looked at his partner, smiled grudgingly.

**~*~*~**

“Captain.”

“Yes, Spock?” Kirk looked up at his first officer.

“You can speak in front of our guests, I think,” Kirk said when the Vulcan hesitated.

“Is it advisable to show them so much of the ship and its workings?” Spock said. He glanced at the agents, expecting them to take offense, but they remained silent. “Both are intelligent, one has a scientific background. What they see and learn here could have a deleterious effect on the timeline.”

Kirk nodded, thoughtful. Then, “Gentlemen, we have a lot to talk about. Let us reconvene in a more conducive environment.” He wanted to let his crew do what they needed to, and a briefing room would provide fewer opportunities for their guests to learn anything inappropriate about the future. He turned to Uhura. “Lieutenant, ask Mr Scott and Dr McCoy to meet us in the briefing room.”

“Aye sir.” She turned to her console as their guests rejoined the captain; he ushered them to the turbolift and glanced at Spock. His first officer, reading him correctly, joined them.

**~*~*~**

Leave it to Illya, Napoleon thought, to skip idle elevator chitchat and cut straight to the uncomfortable chase.

Looking interestedly at Spock, Illya ventured, “You are not human.”

“I am a Vulcan,” Spock said. Then, relenting, “My mother was human.”

The elevator stopped and they stepped out.

“Vulcan,” Illya echoed. “But you look very …. human.”

“Humanoid,” Spock corrected. “Obviously Vulcans are biologically similar to humans, although superior in physical strength and lifespan …”

Two men joined them out of a side corridor. Napoleon recognized them as Dr. McCoy and the ship’s … engineer, if he remembered correctly. Scotty.

“Oh, here we go,” the doctor drawled the moment he joined them. “Vulcan superiority.”

Spock, unoffended, raised a brow. “I merely state facts, doctor. I make no judgments about those facts.”

Napoleon noticed Kirk and Scotty were smiling; apparently this back-and-forth was nothing unusual.

“I intend no offense. I merely expected the first bug-eyed alien I met to be more … bug-eyed,” Illya said drily. “And alien.”

“Don’t let him fool you,” McCoy cracked to the Russian spy. “Anyone with green blood, no feelings, and his heart where his liver should be, is alien. He doesn’t need the bug eyes. Besides, he does have those ears.” He gave Spock – who was airily ignoring him – a sidelong look that made the agents understand this ribbing was SOP.

“Yes, he does,” Illya agreed. “It’s quite fascinating.”

This – to Napoleon quite obvious – statement was met with glances of surprise from every member of the ship’s crew, including Spock. They said nothing, and he didn’t know what to make of it.

Taking his own opportunity to broach a delicate subject, Napoleon said to the captain, “You don’t trust us with knowledge of your advanced technology.”

“It’s not exactly an issue of trust,” Kirk replied. “Mr Spock’s objections are valid. As always. Our concern is that something you learn here may affect your later lives in such a way that the natural history of the Earth is altered.”

“You’re worried we’ll construct a … what are they called? A phaser?” Illya asked.

Kirk smiled. “If Spock says you can, you can.” He caught Napoleon’s brief grin.

“If anyone can, he can,” Napoleon acknowledged. “And I know he’s itching to try.” Illya shot him a betrayed glare.

Spock said, “I did not say that he could. Yet. But he must not.”

Kirk nodded, looking thoughtfully at their guests. “Yes. If you have practical knowledge of our technology you might use it to alter what should be. You might even do that accidentally. We cannot allow that.”

“And if we should somehow acquire such dangerous knowledge?” Napoleon asked.

“Please don’t,” Kirk said. “We … even in our time we have limited ability regarding the selective erasure of knowledge. At worst, we’d have to—”

“Kill us,” Illya said.

Kirk allowed faint affront to show. “Keep you. It would be a waste to kill you. But I must assume you have lives you wish to return to. Please don’t make that impossible by … by being too curious.”

Kirk stopped at a pair of doors that slid apart, revealing the room they had met in upon their arrival. Napoleon was amused to think anything about this was “familiar,” but this room was. The captain indicated that they should enter.

**~*~*~**

Kirk, watching the two agents, had to give them credit for nerve; after an evening that had to have rattled their sense of security and everything they thought they knew, the two men looked as calm as if they were in their own home. Lt. Dietrich had told him something about the conditioning agents went through in these dark and dangerous times. In many ways it sounded more rigorous than Star Fleet – and it was certainly more ruthless. Little about them spoke, even to Kirk’s keen eye, to the reality that they were trained killers.

Spock and Kuryakin followed Kirk and Solo into the briefing room, heads close together as Kuryakin intently attended Spock’s explanation of the slingshot effect.

Kirk found himself smiling slightly at it, and at the Russian’s amazed, but apposite, questions.

No doubt pleased to encounter an intellect within light-years of his own – or at least someone with a scientific interest as keen as his own – Spock had apparently forgotten the edict that forbade their permitting these men access to advanced technology or information, even though he himself had just repeated it to his captain. Kirk couldn’t imagine any threat to the future in the conversation. The odds of Kuryakin constructing a vessel capable of performing the slingshot maneuver were fairly slim. And there was something amusing in the similarities between these two very different men. Both were so wholly absorbed in conversation that they stopped at the table and looked around as if startled to have found themselves there. At that point they split to resume their original loyalties, Kuryakin sliding into the seat beside his partner and Spock coming around the table to sit at Kirk’s side. Scotty and the doctor sat on either side of that pair.

Solo smiled. “Well, captain, I’d say we’re about as close to being convinced as we ever are of anything. What’s next?”

“We hope to enlist your aid in eliminating the threat,” Kirk said.

Napoleon leaned on the table. “You’re going to have to be specific.”

Puzzled, Kirk said, “I’m not sure I understand you.”

“I noticed that your vessel is armed,” Solo said. “Presumably sometimes you have to fight.”

“Yes?”

“Surely you’re accustomed to thinking in terms of goals, strategy, tactics?”

Kirk understood. “I’m sorry. I’m _not _accustomed to having these kinds of conversations with ... men from another era.”

“Nor are we,” Kuryakin said wryly.

Kirk acknowledged that with a smile. “Simply put, then, we want the Klingons gone from Earth before they cause any harm, in a way that doesn’t draw any more attention than is necessary.”

“Therefore simply destroying them is out,” Solo said.

“Let’s just say it’s our last option,” Kirk said. “At least, as long as they’re on the surface.”

“If they weren’t?”

“If they were far enough away that we could destroy their ship without risk to Earth – and without revealing their presence, or ours, to Earth’s current monitoring devices – we would do so.”

“You’re at war with them, then,” Illya said.

“What they have done is an act of war against the Federation – don’t make the mistake of thinking this is about you, or about this time. It’s an attempt to annihilate us – humankind. This—” He nodded toward the videoscreen showing Earth—“is a means to that end.”

**~*~*~**

“I assume asking them to leave won’t work,” Kuryakin said. “Do they know they’ve been ... followed?”

Kirk glanced to Spock, who said, “Their scanners do not function while they are cloaked.”

“And when they’re not?”

“So far our own sensors indicate they have not scanned us,” Spock said. “As they uncloak at irregular intervals and we have no cloaking device, it is possible that they may discover our presence.”

“But you would know it when they did?”

“There is a probability of 93.17 percent.”

“Probably,” Kirk cut in with a smile.

“What if we could get them to leave?” Solo said.

“We would destroy them,” Kirk said.

“Are you sure?” Solo raised a curious brow. “Not that you would, but that you can?”

Kirk said nothing. Solo smiled.

“OK. Then the obvious goal is to get them to launch their ship back into space, yes? How do we get them to do that? By making it preferable to staying here.”

“And there is some urgency,” Kuryakin murmured, clearly thinking as he spoke, like Solo. “If we wait long enough for them to disperse whatever that chemical is, it won’t matter to us whether the captain blasts them into space dust or not.”

“Then we have to persuade them somehow that the neighborhood is ... bad for their health,” Solo said with a tiny smile.

“That may be beyond our technology,” Kuryakin said, turning to Kirk. “Do _we_ have any weapons that can destroy them?”

Spock was already accessing the central computer, addressing it in a low voice.

“If not, can you loan us some?” Solo said. “Or will that give you away?”

“Hard to say. I don’t know anything about the thoroughness of Klingon research into Earth’s past. They clearly know enough to plant their chemical, but whether they would know enough to question, for instance, a di-thermite explosive ...” Kirk shook his head. “I do know they won’t want to take off if they know we’re waiting for them. And if they don’t know we are, they may well uncloak for launch.”

“Why?”

“Cloaking takes a great deal of power,” Spock said, eyes still on the computer monitor. “They would wish to conserve that power to escape Earth’s gravity.”

“So it’s to our advantage to not let them know we have ... aid from above, so to speak,” Solo said.

Spock said, “With their shields down they would be vulnerable to a number of explosive devices available in this time. And they have no reason to have their shields up in their current circumstances, as they do not know we have followed them, and are fully aware that their cloaking technology is impervious even to scanners of our time.”

He turned the screen so that Solo and Kuryakin could see it. Napoleon recognized most of the names. Illya smiled. Seeing it, Napoleon elbowed him gently.

“Don’t get bloodthirsty just because they roughed you up a little. The idea is to _threaten_ to use it, not actually use it.”

“You’re thinking of ..?” Kirk began.

“I’m thinking of simple blackmail,” Solo said. “What’s to stop us ringing their ship with explosives and telling them to go back where they came from or we’ll blow them back? They don’t have to know that we aren’t really authorized to vaporize a square mile or so of lovely New England.”

Illya scowled. “But would they give up that easily?”

Kirk shook his head. “They wouldn’t think of it as giving up. If they’re ‘discovered,’ so to speak, in this location, it’s an easy matter for them to take off, find another site, say, halfway around the globe, and start again.” He smiled. “Easy, that is, except for us.”

“There is no shortage of chemical plants on earth,” Napoleon acknowledged. “So maybe making this a little difficult for them here and now is all we need to do. Worth a try, at least.”

“The explosives would have to be real, sufficient and armed,” Spock said. “They could easily detect dummies.”

Illya touched an item on the screen, glanced over his shoulder at his partner, and released his small smile. Napoleon grinned in response.

“I think we have a plan,” Solo told Kirk.

“How do you think you’re going to set up a ring of explosives around the ship without the Klingons noticing?” Kirk asked.

“First things first,” Solo said, airily ignoring the captain’s concern. “We could probably requisition the necessary ordnance, but – ”

“You have access to that kind of firepower?” Kirk said.

“Our organization does,” Solo replied. “However, it could take time.”

“We can manufacture it for you more quickly,” Spock said. Kirk shot his first officer a betrayed look.

“I was hoping you’d say that,” Solo said.

A beep interrupted him. Kirk pressed a button. “What is it, lieutenant?”

“Sir, I thought you should see this. Transferring to briefing room.”

A televisor screen lit up in the middle of the table, to Napoleon’s and Illya’s surprise.

“You can see what’s happening down there?” Napoleon said – pointlessly. Obviously they could.

It was dark but for the parking lot security lights – Napoleon remembered what Annie had said: no graveyard shift any more. So there’d be no workers at the plant at this hour.

The ship in the parking lot was visible. A group of the aliens was marching toward a lowered ramp.

“Look –” Napoleon hissed. A dark shape slipped from the factory door and darted into the parking lot to duck behind one of the cars.

The agents squinted in that direction. After a moment the figure darted for another car, nearer the ship.

As the figure passed under one of the dim parking lot lamps, Napoleon said, “Annie.”

Illya cursed.

“What the hell is she doing?” Napoleon said.

Illya shook his head. “She knows her father is on that ship.”

“Who is that?” Kirk demanded. “What is she thinking?”

“Annie Cross. Her father runs the plant – well, he used to. Now he’s a prisoner of your alien chums. She – damn it.”

Annie scurried after the aliens and up the ramp – out of sight of the Enterprise’s scanning ability, apparently.

Kirk repeated the same curse Napoleon had just used.

The men looked at one another across the table, silently communicating that they all knew her odds of having just been seen and captured were nearly 100 percent.

“Our to-do list is getting a little out of hand,” Illya said darkly.

McCoy said, “If you’re thinking of slipping on board a Klingon ship and rescuing that girl, your to-do list is also suicidal.”

Napoleon sighed. “Granted. At least, theoretically. But we can’t just abandon the girl and her father to the tender mercies of your alien friends.”

Kirk shook his head, slowly, a heavy indictment. “How do you plan to get on board?”

Napoleon smiled. “Well, not the same way she did, if we can think of something more promising.”

Illya cut in. “Can’t you – what is it? – transport us into their ship?”

“Yes. But they’d still spot you, and we’d give ourselves away.”

Illya snarled under his breath.

Scotty leaned forward. “It’s unlikely the Klingons’re monitoring the insides of their own ship. Why would they bother? So far as they know, there’s no one capable of even seein’ it in this time, as long as it’s cloaked.” He glanced at Spock, who said:

“Mr. Scott presents an interesting possibility. There would be little need for the Klingons to expect any threat to beam aboard, given their current situation.”

Napoleon grinned triumphantly.

“Until they appear in front of a Klingon in the mess hall,” Kirk said.

Scotty made a sour face. “Give me more credit than that, captain – I can put ‘em wherever you want me to – say, into a cargo hold. It won’t _guarantee_ they won’t be seen, but their chances will be a wee bit better.”

Kirk looked at Spock, who offered a brief nod of cautious assent.

“That would give them a better than fair chance at being undetected, at least upon entry. I would calculate the odds at—”

Kirk held up a hand. “Another time, Spock.” He looked at Napoleon. “OK. We can get you in the ship – maybe – undetected. What about after that?”

“Well, we’re on our own. If they find us wandering down the corridors we can always claim we got in through our own superb cleverness. How would they prove otherwise?”

“And if they’ve caught us, why would they care?” Illya said darkly, and Napoleon shot him a look, then continued his plea to Kirk.

“Look, part of our job is protecting the innocent. We have to at least try to get them out of there. Why don’t you folks go on manufacturing the bombs while we make the attempt. If they kill us, you can always …” He thought fast. “… put on disguises, pretend to be us, and threaten them yourselves to get them to leave.”

Kirk sighed.

Spock said mildly, “As the Klingons are currently unaware of our presence, Mr Solo’s suggestion is a viable alternative to employ in proceeding with our plans if they do not return.”

“Thanks, Mr. Spock,” Napoleon said sourly. “We’d miss you too.”

McCoy muttered, “The Prime Directive sure is taking a beating around here.”

Kirk sighed. “Bones, I’m open to better ideas. _Believe_ me.”

Napoleon shifted his fake-offended look to the captain.

**~*~*~**

They appeared – Illya said “materialized,” but he was just showing off – in a dark room, surrounded by what their pocket torches revealed to be metal containers of various sizes and shapes. The air was cold and had an oily, unpleasant smell and taste. They silently reconnoitered, then settled into a quiet corner.

“The captain suggested we look for ventilation ducts,” Illya whispered. So they did – eventually locating one high on a wall near to some conveniently tall containers. Some careful scrambling and much elbow grease applied to the grate and they were presented with a reasonably roomy and clean air duct.

“What are the odds there are road signs in there?” Napoleon murmured.

“ ‘This way to hostages’?” Illya played along. “Yes, that would be helpful.”

“Well, the search of a thousand rooms begins with a single step, as they say.” Napoleon held out locked hands to boost his partner up.

“I’ve never heard anyone say that,” Illya muttered, but he accepted the boost and pulled his partner up after.

Built to accommodate a larger species, the ducts weren’t claustrophobic, though they too smelled oily and unpleasant, and frequent odd clangings and groans startled the agents continually as they crawled. They paused at every grate to listen, and quickly realized that they’d need every scrap of Napoleon’s legendary luck to learn where Annie and her father were being held – if they were still alive. Though they often heard, and sometimes glimpsed, the huge ugly aliens, there was no sign of human presence. All the conversation was – naturally – in the aliens’ harsh, guttural native tongue, providing no clues as to whether they were on the right track.

At a three-way junction, Illya stopped, so abruptly Napoleon bumped into him from behind. Illya touched a finger to his lips, scowling, and they both froze for a moment. Then, with a “eureka” expression, Illya pointed down one of the smaller offshoot ducts and started off at a speed that suggested to Napoleon – who’d heard nothing – that his famous luck was still working.

After about another 10 feet, he heard it too – a woman crying.

A few feet further on and around a bend they found the salient vent. Silently creeping close, they peered out.

Annie Cross sat on a bare metal bench in a room that looked like the inside of some large machine. Ducts, pipes, valves, knobs, bolts and grates were everywhere – so much so it took Napoleon a moment to locate the door – if it was what it looked like – amongst the clutter. It struck him as less bare than most cells he’d seen, and he’d seen quite a few. He wondered briefly if the aliens just hadn’t bothered to include such things in their vessel – space was presumably at a premium – but on further consideration he decided if anyone was going to consider a cell or torture chamber a necessity, it was these goons.

She appeared alone and uninjured, but was crying copiously into her trembling hands. The agents exchanged a look, and Napoleon nodded. Illya leaned close to the grate and softly spoke her name.

She started, looking around wildly, and Illya tapped on the grate to draw her focus. She scrambled over and between them they worked the grate off of the opening. The agents slipped out and she hugged them both.

“Oh my god.” She was still crying, but she wasn’t hysterical. “I thought…they told me they killed my father and I thought…”

Napoleon hugged her again – she seemed to need it – and nodded at Illya to look for a door.

“We might be better off staying in the ducts,” Illya said, but he went to the door all the same, seeking some kind of release mechanism.

“We won’t get off this ship by staying in the ducts,” Napoleon said.

Illya touched a large square formation and the door slid open. He peered out.

“The coast is clear.”

Napoleon took Annie by the shoulders and looked into her wet, frightened eyes. “Annie. I’m sorry about your father. I’m sorry we weren’t able to help him. But he would want you to live. We want that too. And we have a mission to perform that will save—” _Everyone on earth_ seemed melodramatic, even though it was true—“a lot of lives. I need you to be strong for a little while longer. OK?”

She took in a deep breath. Held it. For a moment he thought she’d burst into sobs. She shut her eyes. The words came out very quiet. “I know these … animals want to kill people. A lot of people. I hate them. I want to stop them.” She opened her eyes. “What do you need me to do?”

Napoleon smiled and hugged her again, briefly. “Just stick with us for the moment – we need to get off of this ship.”

They moved to the door.

“Still clear,” Illya said. “But which way?”

Napoleon shrugged dramatically. Illya rolled his eyes and led the way, to the right. The corridor curved, then straightened for a while. They heard distant noises but saw no one as they scurried like mice toward a T-junction. There, they paused, made an equally blind guess to go right again, and scurried until they came to a set of doors in an otherwise dead-end corridor.

“Shall we attempt it?” Napoleon nodded at the door with suicidal optimism. “Or back the way we came?” It was becoming increasingly evident that their chances were poorer than they’d hoped. The ship didn’t look as big from the outside as it seemed on the inside.

Heavy boot-falls began approaching, echoing off the bare metal walls.

“_Chyort_.” No choice. Illya pressed the square section by the doors and they opened to reveal what looked like yet another storage space. The footsteps – footstomps – came nearer as they bustled into the room – a shout rang out.

“They’ve spotted us – go!” Illya shoved the others forward and dove for the button that would close the doors. Napoleon and Annie ran across the room – perhaps to hide behind the stacked containers – and Illya started to turn, instinctively knowing the aliens would get there before the doors shut.

A heavy hand grabbed his shoulder and pulled. He groped for his special but was yanked off his feet and spun about to face a huge, leering alien. A meaty hand snapped down on his arm, knocking the special across the room; then both hands locked onto his neck and the alien growled something that Illya guessed wasn’t, “Welcome to our ship.”

“Take your hands off him.”

_Napoleon_.

The alien spun, sliding one arm across Illya’s neck like a steel bar, to face his new threat. He didn’t seem impressed by the medium-sized male human who faced him.

The Klingon smiled. “Or?”

“Or I’ll put my hands on you.” Napoleon offered his_ I’ve killed better men than you before breakfast_ smile. “I can guarantee you won’t like it.”

“Very funny, human.” The Klingon tightened his grip on Illya.

Napoleon shrugged. “Sometimes the posturing works.”

“And when it doesn’t?” The Klingon’s grin widened, wolfish, confident.

Drawing his gun, Napoleon shot him between the eyes.

“Next time,” Illya said, stepping away from the body and brushing himself off, “don’t feel that you have to toy with them before killing them just to impress me.”

“You have no sense of style.”

“Let’s grab Annie and –”

A flash of light and a howl of sound overwhelmed them and they blacked out.

~*~*~

Napoleon came to in a position so familiar it would have been amusing but for its discomfort: shackled hand and foot against a wall – no, he realized as he looked blearily around, to some sort of tilting platform, like an operating table. Every part of him ached.

Lights and buttons lined the walls of the cold semicircular chamber. The room had a strange scent, at once dusty and metallic.

He saw Illya on a table across from him, moving slightly. His partner looked like he felt, generally beat up but not – yet – seriously injured.

He cleared his throat, said evenly, “Welcome to the party, tovarish.”

The blue eyes opened, took in the scene. “I left the Party years ago.”

“Not that party. Although you may remember it more fondly after our cheery stay here.”

**~*~*~**

Annie scrambled into the hole and pulled the grating in behind her, wedging it quickly into place and yanking her fingers out of sight. Booted feet stomped past, accompanied by a growling, guttural conversation.

She was in some sort of service tunnel, with pipes and cables running along it and lots of buttons and blinking lights, all of which she was careful not to touch.

Great. Now what? She fought down panic – she had no idea what had happened to the agents, and even less idea of how to get out of this miserable hellish spaceship.

But for the moment she was ok. One thing at a time. If this was some kind of service conduit it might run through other rooms on this … thing. Maybe if she crept quietly along she might find where the UNCLE agents were. Or she might find an exit. She couldn’t just sit here, anyway. At random, she turned left and started crawling.

**~*~*~**

A door – unseen – slid open, the half-familiar sound startling both agents.

Booted feet approached, accompanied by the creak of leather and the harsh jingle of metal.

Korg came into view, grinning. He had a new shadow, smaller and meaner looking.

“Where’s your pal?” Napoleon asked brightly. Korg’s smile faltered for a moment.

“Gentlemen.” The word was a promise of pain. “I was right. You are far from what I expected to find on this backwater planet of weaklings. Even in my time there are few humans to compare.”

“Is he composing a sonnet for us?” Napoleon asked Illya in a stage whisper.

“That would explain the jewelry,” Illya replied, rattling the shackles on his wrists, which Napoleon saw were bleeding.

Korg observed the exchange, appearing baffled. The smile returned.

“I am going to enjoy breaking you,” he said.

“It’s been tried,” Napoleon replied.

Illya clucked his tongue. “Napoleon, it’s going to be a very long day if you insist on spouting clichéd lines from old movies.”

“It is going to be a very long day for both of you regardless of what you say,” Korg said, waving his associate forward. “You may think you won’t break. You are wrong. And when I am done with you two –”

“Tomorrow the world?” Illya said. Napoleon rolled his eyes.

“You started it,” Illya accused.

“My associate has some expertise in human physiology,” Korg said, indicating his smaller companion. Human or not, in his eyes Napoleon saw what he’d seen many times before in those who relished giving pain.

“I will enjoy watching him make you beg.”

“I thought you wanted to do that yourself,” Napoleon said.

Korg looked them up and down, admiringly, Napoleon would have said, if that weren’t a ridiculous idea.

“Star Fleet could take a lesson from you and your associate,” Korg purred. “I’ve killed a number of humans. Few have ever faced death with such cold courage. It is almost … Klingon of you.

Illya shrugged as well as his position allowed. “People are always trying to kill us. It gets old after a while.”

Korg grinned. “I’ll take care of that.”

~*~*~

“Report, Mr, Chekov.”

Chekov examined his board, then turned to face his captain. His expression told all. “Sir, I’ve scanned the Klingon ship again, and it is clear there are multiple human life forms still on board.”

“Damn.” It’d been hours. It was too much to hope that this delay didn’t mean they’d been captured. Kirk hit the intercom switch.

“Spock, how are those bombs coming?”

Spock’s voice came at once. “We should have sufficient numbers to constitute a valid threat in … seven point eight minutes.”

Kirk smacked the switch off with his fist, pounding the arm of his chair once or twice for good measure. _Damn_.

McCoy, watching, said:

“Jim, you can’t just leave them. You know what will happen to them!”

“Bones, I have an entire planet – an entire planet’s future – to worry about. I think they’d be the first to tell me that that is my priority.” He looked long at his medical officer as McCoy struggled for words to contradict him.

“I’m not happy about it either. I’ll do everything I can. But I can’t sacrifice Earth to save three people. Solo and Kuryakin wouldn’t expect me to. I can give them a little more time, but when those explosives are ready, we have to act—”

“Jim—”

“We have to act before the Klingons do,” Kirk finished, and the doctor had no answer.

~*~*~

Napoleon watched, half blinded by tears and blood, as Kanak applied the rod to Illya’s side. His partner twitched but did not cry out. By that Napoleon knew he was unconscious. Napoleon blinked several times, trying to clear his vision. The pain was nothing – almost nothing – compared to seeing his partner suffer. He knew that was meant to be a part of the torture and was relieved Korg didn’t realize how much worse it would be for them _not _to be able to see one another as they were hurt. They’d had to live through that; it was more than anyone with a heart should have to bear.

He could only hope that these creatures didn’t understand human psychology well enough to know the most effective way to torture a man who feared his own death less than another’s.

**~*~*~**

Spotting yet another ventilation grate, Annie crawled forward. She heard sounds – electronic sorts of sounds, or mechanical – and then a cry. An all too human cry. She inched closer, her blood frozen in her veins, until she could see. What she saw almost made her burst into tears. _No._

She’d gone in a circle. She was right back where she had been – at the cell. And those alien monsters were doing … monstrous things to the UNCLE agents. Terrified to her core, Annie curled in on herself, trying to breathe, to think - to not give in to the fear that made her want to crawl away as quickly as possible. The sounds stabbed at her soul; she had to bite her tongue against nausea.

_Think! Think! Do something!_

But nothing entered her mind except horror.

**~*~*~**

Kirk braced himself, adjusted his cap, and held the small incendiary device up to his face. Aware of Spock’s dubious gaze, he smiled around the white, weed-filled cylinder. “Well, here goes nothing.” He flicked the lighter and a tiny flame spat upward.

“Sir.” Spock kept his voice low. “Is this level of verisimilitude called for?”

The end of the cigarette crackled, smoked.

“We’re taking what Lt. Dietrich called a ‘smoke break,’ Mr. Spock. We don’t want to arouse suspicion.” He took a careful puff, wrinkling his nose at the smell, and hefted the small rucksack containing the explosives over his shoulder. “Let’s go.”

Spock pulled down his own cap and they ambled around the side of the plant, casually edging toward the invisible Bird of Prey.

**~*~*~**

A strident beeping drew Korg away from the show. Out of the corner of one bleary eye Napoleon saw him hit a button on a device attached to the wall. “Korg.”

Napoleon couldn’t make out what was said, but Korg stiffened, snapped out something, and hammered the button with a fist. He spun, shouting at Kanak, and stormed out of the camber. Kanak stared after him.

“Bad news, I hope?” Napoleon said sweetly. Kanak glared at him and followed Korg.

Illya stirred, coming to silently. Napoleon waited a few seconds to be sure his partner was in a state to hear and comprehend before saying, “Our hosts seem to have been called away by some minor problem.”

Illya stared at him, just long enough to cause a trickle of cold down Napoleon’s spine, before croaking out, “Good. I was getting bored with all this tedious violence and abuse.”

“It is possible we’re being monitored,” Napoleon said. “Nonetheless …”

“Yes.” Both men started working at the manacles. Though unpadded and sharp-edged enough to have bloodied the agents’ wrists and hands, they seemed to have been built for creatures on a slightly larger scale, because they weren’t exactly tight.

“I’ve got one hand free—”

Napoleon heard the strain in Illya’s voice.

A metallic clanging startled them both. Illya slid his hand partway back into the manacle.

Annie came into view, dusty and disheveled, her face white and streaked with tears. She looked at them, then around the room. “Should I start hitting buttons?” She looked at the panels on the wall. “I can’t read the writing.”

“No,” Napoleon said quickly. “Nothing personal, but given the function of this room you’re as likely to electrocute us as free us. How did you get here?”

“I got turned around,” she admitted with a rueful smile.

Napoleon had to echo that smile. “Lucky for us.”

With a muffled groan Illya pulled his other hand free, immediately doubling over.

“Help Illya,” Napoleon commanded. Annie went to his side but Illya straightened up, gently brushing her aside, and went to the control panel. Annie followed him.

“How bad?” Napoleon asked quietly as she passed. Illya shook his head. By that Napoleon knew it was bad.

“Go slow,” Napoleon said. “Too bad we weren’t conscious when they strung us up.”

“Speak for yourself,” Illya rasped.

“You big phony.”

Annie and Illya scanned the panel for a few seconds – why Annie was bothering Napoleon couldn’t guess, but he appreciated her intentions – before Illya touched a large switch, paused, and pushed it.

Napoleon froze in anticipation – and the cuffs clanked open.

“Voila,” Illya said. Napoleon came to his side, and – having the privilege of ignoring Illya’s protests verbal and otherwise – took firm hold of his arm to support him.

“Now what?” Annie asked.

The three of them looked around the room.

“Well.” Napoleon indicated the ducts. “We have our old standby. Once more unto the ducts, dear friends.”

**~*~*~**

The Enterprise officers strolled as if casually among the cars, Kirk pretending to smoke the vile weed, Spock simply carrying the smoldering cylinder in his fingers, as awkward as McCoy performing the Vulcan hand salute.

As they passed behind this or that vehicle, each man surreptitiously deposited and activated one of the two dozen “bombs” out of sight.

“We must act before this group of plant workers departs,” Spock murmured as they worked.

“Yes – it wouldn’t do to have these lying visible for too long – the plant workers themselves might think they’re explosives – I mean, directed at the plant.”

“Ah, yes.” Spock nodded. “Earth still suffers from political terrorism in this era. We have 47.5 minutes until this shift leaves for the day.”

“More than enough time for our little grandstand play.” Kirk squatted briefly, sliding a “bomb” under a blue vehicle. “I hope it works.”

**~*~*~**

Bright light – outdoor light – beckoned. They crawled cautiously forward, Napoleon hyperaware of Illya’s audible, pained breathing. They had to get out of there fast.

At the grate he pressed his face close and peered out. He saw what looked like a cargo hold, multiple large containers and – miracle of miracles – an open door with a ramp leading out.

All three of them jumped when booted feet stomped past mere inches away and one of the aliens passed before the grate.

Leaning back to get a decent viewing angle, Napoleon saw the alien descend the ramp, carrying something in his arms, and head for the plant.

Turning to the others he whispered, “This looks like as good a shot as we’re going to get. Get ready to move fast. Out the vent, to the right, and down the ramp – on my mark.”

He looked at Illya, sitting with his back to the wall. The look on his bloodless face turned Napoleon cold. He sidled over.

“Are you going to make it?” he asked. Illya actually looked at him as if considering it.

“If there are any viable alternatives, they’ve escaped me.” He pressed a hand to his midsection.

Napoleon scooted back to the grate and worked it delicately, wincing at the effort – his hands and fingers were throbbing from their hosts’ gentle questioning techniques – until he felt confident he could quickly get it out of the way when the coast was clear. Another alien stomped past, this time going empty-handed back into the ship.

He looked back at Annie, a hard look, gauging her fear and her ability to act despite it.

“When I push this grate out,” he whispered, “_run_. Follow me, but run. Don’t stop, don’t say anything, don’t think. _Run_, and stay with me.” He held her wide-eyed stare, silently communicating deadly earnest. She gulped, nodded.

Whispered, “I’m ready.”

A split-second glance at his partner made it equally clear that Illya was as ready as it was possible for him to be.

Napoleon took in some deep, fortifying breaths while mapping the pattern and timing of the activities outside, until he felt reasonably confident that they’d at least have a few seconds of time to distance themselves from the space ship. Though he sported multiple bruises, cuts and sprains (and it was possible, he admitted to himself, that a rib or two was cracked) he felt capable of the planned dash. He had needling doubts about whether Illya could honestly say the same.

He braced himself – feeling Annie and Illya do the same behind him – and, when the coast was clear, shoved.

The grate popped out and flopped to the metal deck. Napoleon was already out, instinctively grabbing Annie’s hand to pull her after him.

They scurried to the ramp, plunged down it to the parking lot, and ran for the nearest plant door.

~*~*~

A guttural yell – Klingon – made Kirk and Spock start, crouch, and seek frantically for the source.

“There—” Spock pointed and the both automatically ducked behind the nearest archaic Earth transport.

Napoleon and the girl – Kirk couldn’t recall her name – were running from the cloaked Klingon ship, but they’d been spotted. Two Klingons pursued, heavy booted feet hammering the pavement, disruptors drawn.

Kirk reached instinctively for his phaser – then, “_Damn_.” That was a no-go. Everything depended on them not giving themselves away yet.

Napoleon and the girl swerved and ran toward them – not intentionally, as Kirk could tell they were unaware of his and Spock’s presence, but heading for the plant.

Kirk cursed – and in the same instance Spock said quickly, “I believe the appropriate phrase for the moment is _mano a mano_, captain.”

Kirk shot him a lightning grin and they scrambled along behind the vehicles toward the chase, prepared to intercept and pounce on the pursuing Klingons. No one could trace fisticuffs back to the Enterprise.

~*~*~

Annie’s hand still grasped hard in his, hearing her gasps for air behind him, Napoleon ran full-tilt into the plant exit door and grabbed the handle, wrenching it.

_Damn it! Locked._

He spun, pushing Annie behind him and automatically scanning for Illya so they could position themselves for the two Klingons heading toward them.

His partner was nowhere in sight.

_Illya_.

_No time!_ – he braced himself as the two huge aliens lunged toward him – then stared in amaze as Captain Kirk and Mr. Spock leaped out from behind a battered Ford pickup and bodily slammed into the two Klingons from the side.

They bowled the aliens over, taking two hard tumbles to the asphalt. Napoleon took that second to scan again for his partner – where the hell could he have gotten to while they were running?

~*~*~

Kirk sucked in a much-needed breath, flipped out his communicator. “Scotty – four to beam up right now.”

“Wait!” Napoleon’s shout was enveloped and swallowed by the hum of the transporter.

~*~*~

Halfway out of the vent opening, Illya flinched back at the shouts of the Klingons. He knew instantly that he didn’t have the speed to escape. Quickly he wrenched the grate back more or less over the opening – and a pair of alien legs ran past. He ducked back, listening with his entire body, but all he heard was the fading sound of booted alien feet. No way to know if Napoleon and Annie got away.

And no way to know how he was going to do the same.

Illya sat back against the cold metal vent wall, thinking very hard.

~*~*~

Annie slumped as they materialized; Napoleon instinctively caught her and helped her down from the platform.

Captain Kirk, waiting there with Spock and a fair-haired young man Napoleon didn’t know, leaned over the control console and pressed a button.

“Kirk to sickbay.”

“Sickbay. This is Nurse Chapel.”

“Christine, we have a young woman in shock here – we need immediate assistance.”

“I’ll be there shortly, sir.”

Still holding Annie – he realized distantly that she was shaking and crying – Napoleon said:

“They’ve got my partner. You’ve got to send me back down there.”

“What happened?” Kirk asked.

Solo explained their escape with tense brevity, ending with, “Illya didn’t follow us. He’s injured. I need to get back.”

“Slow down,” Kirk said. “Don’t you think it would be better to have some kind of plan than to rush in there without taking some sort of precautions? We’ve set the fake charges. We have some leverage now.”

“I can hardly expect them to hand over my partner on the basis of the same threat that was supposed to simply drive them off the planet,” Napoleon spoke in precise tones and Kirk wondered what had made him imagine, even briefly, that this man would panic.

“What do you propose?”

“Either I get back onto that ship and get my partner off without their cooperation, or I offer to trade what they want for what I want.”

“You can’t.” Kirk moderated his tone, ignoring the impatience on Napoleon’s face that suggested he’d already thought of this. “You can’t endanger the planet for the sake of one man, however dear he is to you.”

“I didn’t say I’d do it,” Napoleon said. “Just that I’d offer.” Quietly, he stated an absolute. “I’m not leaving my partner in there with those ... things.”

Just as quietly Kirk said, “I know. Hold on. Let’s work out what you’re going to say – we need to be clear on our strategy.” _And on whether your partner will be the price we have to pay to save the world._ He cast fiercely for alternatives.

Scowling, Napoleon said, “Can you fit me with some kind of monitoring device?”

Surprised, Kirk looked at Spock.

“Indeed.” He glanced at Kirk for permission and Kirk said, “Go.”

Spock moved swiftly to the doors. As he left, Nurse Chapel entered, glanced around, took in the situation, and went instantly to Annie, taking her from Napoleon’s support and speaking gently into her ear as she led her out.

“All right,” Kirk said. “I have an idea.” _ A good one, I hope._ “The fake bombs are set. It’s up to you to threaten them sufficiently that they buy into it and take off. If you can convince them of the threat, they’ll take off. Once in orbit, they’ll decloak. It’s standard procedure when there’s no threat, and Earth, at this time – no offense – presents no threat.”

“How does that help Illya?” Napoleon asked.

Kirk smiled. “Decloaked, they can’t block our scanners. We simply scan their ship for human life forms, which are quite distinct from Klingon life forms.”

He watched hope spark in the agent’s eyes.

“We beam him off, and … do what we must.”

“Will this work?” Napoleon breathed.

“You go down there and sell it,” Kirk said, picking up the fake detonator from the transporter console. “Here’s your prop.”

Napoleon took the detonator, felt the heft of it, and looked it over. It appeared convincing. “This looks good.”

“The key is ensuring the Klingons believe you enough that they scan the mines. That should convince them, if we’ve done our jobs.”

The doors opened and Spock entered. He proffered a tiny disk-shaped device.

“Where does it go?” Napoleon asked.

“If you’ll permit me?” Spock said, and, at Napoleon’s nod, affixed the disk to a button on Napoleon’s suit coat.

“This will enable us to see and hear what you see and hear,” Spock said, and produced a second disk, this one flesh-toned. He placed it behind Napoleon’s ear, pressing it against his skull for a moment.

Napoleon felt a tiny electrical prickle, then nothing.

“That device will enable us to talk with one another at a level the Klingons should be unable to detect.”

“Should be?” Napoleon asked.

Kirk smiled. “Best to use it only at need.”

Napoleon nodded, tucked the detonator under one arm, and said, “Send me back down.”

Kirk and Spock exchanged a look. They knew there was perhaps a 50/50 chance (Spock would know the precise odds) that this would work – that the Klingons wouldn’t just laugh and shoot the UNCLE agent – but what else could they do?

Kirk nodded to Kyle, who’d waited in patient silence all this time. The Transporter Chief nodded back and began the process.

Napoleon hopped onto the platform. “Wish me luck,” he said, meeting Kirk’s eyes.

The captain nodded. “Good luck.”

The sparkle of the transporter process engulfed the UNCLE agent, and he was gone.

~*~*~

It only occurred to Napoleon as he walked toward the invisible ship that he had no way of knowing if anyone inside would even see him.

_All this effort to sneak around unnoticed and now here I am, wanting them to see me, and for all I know they’re all asleep._

He glanced at his watch. 23 minutes until shift change. He had that much time to get these ugly bastards off the planet without drawing attention - well, without drawing a lot of attention. If a plant worker or two noticed anything, UNCLE could always … debrief that away.

He scanned fruitlessly but instinctively for a hint of the ship, as he’d done before, in the space that appeared to be only an empty section of parking lot.

_Illya. Damn it. Where are you?_

Bracing his feet, he held the “detonator” clearly visible, but close to his body (who knew what they had in the way of snipers?) and took in a breath.

~*~*~

“Commander?”

Korg turned from his conversation with the officer in charge of the transfer of equipment into the humans’ structure – impatiently. They had no set schedule, but he was eager to accomplish the destruction of the humans and return in triumph to his time. The Klingon High Command would reward him beyond imagination for his heroism and genius.

The officer at the sensor station flipped a switch and a human voice came out of the speakers:

“I repeat: We know your plan. We have ringed your ship with explosives powerful enough to destroy you. If you so much as open your ship’s doors we’ll set them off. If I see anyone moving around your ship – if I see _anything_ other than you leaving – we’ll set them off. My finger is on the release, so if you shoot me, they’ll go off. Leave. Leave this planet and don’t return or we will destroy you.”

Korg moved toward the monitors, saw the human man he had so recently tortured standing there, battered and pale, holding a detonation device. Fury surged in him. How had those pathetic … humans escaped? And the gall of them to threaten the mighty Klingon empire …

“Commander,” his sensors operator said. “Scans of the area indicate several very powerful explosive devices.”

Korg glared at him. “Powerful enough to harm us?”

The officer swallowed. “Powerful enough to destroy us.”

For a moment of tense silence, the officers on Korg’s bridge watched, wondering what furious tirade would spring from their commander’s lips.

Commander Korg … laughed, long and heartily.

His men waited, no less tense.

“Take off,” Korg snapped.

His helmsman blinked. Stammered. “S-Sir?”

“Take off.” Korg’s grin never shifted. “Let them think they’ve scared us off with their bombs. We are in no hurry to annihilate the human race, and we will do so. Once in orbit, scan for a location with similar characteristics. There are thousands. We will select another site and proceed with more secrecy.” He glared at his still-surprised second. “Obey.”

The Klingon blinked, and scurried to obey.

~*~*~

Knowing full well that at any second he could be blasted – he probably wouldn’t even feel it, which was some comfort – Napoleon waited.

He started as the still-invisible ship began to hum, then rumble, then roar. Heat and vibration waves blasted against his body, actively pushing him back, arms thrown protectively over his face, until, with a rush of air and howl of fading sound, it was gone.

Instinctively he looked into the sky as the roar shrank swiftly to silence, but all he saw was sky. He drew in an unsteady breath or two and eased his vise-hold on the “detonator” as gingerly as if it were the real thing.

_It’s gone. It’s done. Now … now what?_

Then he felt the strange hard tingle of transportation.

~*~*~

Two men he didn’t know were in the transporter room.

The older man said, “Kyle, take our guest to the bridge,” with a strong Scots accent.

The younger said, “Yes sir,” and led the way, at a pace about half that Napoleon would have preferred.

When the turbolift doors slid open, Napoleon’s eyes went first to the ship on the huge viewing screen. It was the alien ship he’d seen only once before, now hovering, grey against the black of space.

Kirk was speaking to his crew.

“Phasers locked,” Sulu said.

Kirk spoke into … the arm of his chair, as far as Napoleon could tell.

“Scotty, come on. Have you got him? We have about 5 seconds before they spot us.”

The voice came loud and clear from the speakers, “Locked on. We got ‘im.”

Kirk looked up, said calmly, “Fire.”

And Sulu did so.

Two white beams of energy blazed out from the Enterprise to the aliens’ ship. They struck, there was an explosion of blinding, soundless light, and as Napoleon blinked, it shimmered and shrank to nothing.

Nothing. The ship was gone.

~*~*~

There was a moment of silence – stunned silence, on his part, Napoleon realized, since he was the only one amazed by the level of power he’d just witnessed.

Then his thoughts turned to Illya. He looked at Kirk, who was already rising from his chair. Without invitation, Spock followed.

“Let’s go.” The captain beckoned Napoleon to follow.

~*~*~

The doors slid open and Napoleon slid through them, the captain on his heels.

The sparkle of the transporter was just fading as a man’s outline solidified. Dr McCoy was already there. He hadn’t been so ordered, but long experience made him almost psychic in these instances.

Solo stopped and Kirk bumped into him – and he could _feel_ the hope drain from the man’s body.

The man on the transporter pad was a stranger.

“It’s Ben Cross.” Napoleon’s voice was level, emotionless.

The man – middle-aged, medium-sized, white-faced, in tattered and bloody clothing – collapsed on the pad.

Dr McCoy knelt beside him, tricorder whipped out, passing over his body. Kirk spared him a glance, then looked at Solo. The agent stared white-faced at the man on the floor. Kirk’s stomach lurched as he recognized in Solo’s eyes the realization of a fear he himself was all too familiar with.

“Mr Solo ...” he began, but had no words to comfort the gut-wrenching pain that met his gaze. Instead he turned to his engineer, watching puzzled.

“Scotty, there were no other human life signs?”

“No sir. Just that poor fella there. The Klingon ship wasn’t cloaked – the readings were clear.”

Spock, who had gone behind the panel to examine the board himself, looked at Kirk, probably the only man in the universe to whom he would reveal the compassion that glimmered now in his dark eyes.

“Mr Scott is correct,” the Vulcan said quietly. “There was no one else.”

“Mr Solo ...” Kirk turned but the agent had passed through the doors into the corridor.

McCoy called out. “I need to get this man to sickbay now. He was beaten. Viciously.”

Kirk waved the security men forward and they immediately went to lift Ben Cross and follow McCoy.

As he passed Kirk, McCoy nodded toward the door – toward Napoleon Solo, and said, low, “You might want to go talk to him.”

Kirk nodded. “It won’t do much good.” Nonetheless he followed McCoy and the security guards out.

Solo had simply stopped a few feet from the turbolift, which waited, door invitingly open. Kirk, looking at him, wondered if Solo even knew where he was at this moment. The expression in his eyes hit home with Kirk, but that didn’t mean he knew how to comfort the agent. Indeed, he knew better than most that there was no comfort for this kind of loss.

Still, because he had to, he said, “I’m sorry.”

Solo looked at him, only barely aware of his presence.

“He was a good man.” Inwardly Kirk cringed at the inadequacy. If Spock were killed, would he stand for hearing such trite words from anyone? Would it even penetrate?

Kirk took Solo’s arm and gently ushered him into the turbolift. “Deck Five.”

He guided the agent to one of the guest quarters near his own cabin, indicated the intercom, and said: “Call me when you need me.”

Solo, in the middle of the darkened room, nodded and went to the port.

Kirk realized, as the door slid shut behind him, that he knew what Solo would do. He was a professional, much like Kirk. He was on a mission, and he would do what was necessary to conclude it. In a few minutes, an hour – whatever it took to swallow down the black empty dread – he would come out and do his duty. A man could do a lot, Kirk thought, even with his heart and soul half-dead inside him. He went to his quarters and began to make his log entry.

~*~*~

The view beyond the port perfectly mirrored the cold emptiness inside Napoleon. He remained stunned – intellectually conscious of what had happened, but unable to feel it, although he knew those feelings were in him. A Pandora’s box of grief, guilt, rage, with no hope in it. He couldn’t open it. He could feel it straining to burst, kept shut only by his will. His fear. Fear that he wouldn’t make it through if he allowed himself to fully realize what had happened. What he’d lost. Who he’d lost. His right arm? Hell, he’d have _given _that in exchange – gratefully. He’d lost half of himself.

But he couldn’t stand here forever. He knew what he had to do. What Illya would do were their positions reversed, and in the same lifeless manner. The claims of duty remained, like a machine that kept his heart and lungs pumping, his limbs and brain working, regardless of his will, which at this moment longed only to lie down and die.

~*~*~

The door opened and the captain of the Enterprise stepped inside.

“You called me.”

Solo faced him, calm, eyes dead. “I need to get back to Earth. I need to be sure there are no stray aliens left in the plant.” There was no question as to what their fate would be, Kirk thought, should any have been left behind. “Then I have a report to make.”

“Understood.” Kirk could see that Solo had yet to touch his own grief, wasn’t even close to feeling it. Maybe it was true that strong men were more fragile in that way. If you felt too much, it could break you. Solo and his partner lived a life fully as dangerous as Kirk and his crew; it amazed him that a man or woman who lived so perilous a life could let someone become close.

_Not close_, he corrected that thought, examining the agent’s face, bleak as a glacier. _Irreplaceable_. A foolish weakness for such a man. Or a noble one.

“Where is Annie?” Napoleon asked belatedly, the good agent leaving no loose ends.

“We’ve … already beamed her to her home,” Kirk said, shaking his head. “Dr McCoy says her father will probably live, but he’s still working on his injuries. We’ll have to beam him down when he’s stable. I don’t know how you’re going to deal with what they’ve seen …”

Businesslike again despite the bleak look in his eyes, Solo said, “UNCLE will debrief them and ensure their silence regarding their experiences.”

Kirk nodded. _If only it were that easy to silence emotions_.

~*~*~

In the transporter room, Napoleon turned.

“Thank you,” Kirk said.

Napoleon acknowledged this with a nod. “Thank _you_. For everything you did and tried to do.”

Kirk said nothing, letting his empathy show, knowing Solo would recognize that they were, in this case, alike. One had suffered the realization of his worst fear, one had not, yet, but that fear was the same for both.

The agent shook Kirk’s hand, then stepped onto the transporter panel and faced them. It wasn’t necessary, but people tended to do it.

Spock, from behind the controls, said, “Live long and prosper.”

Solo’s head came up in what Kirk guessed was slight surprise; the agent seemed to recognize the formality of the benediction.

“Thank you, Mr Spock, but I don’t think I’ll be doing either one.”

The echo of what Spock himself had once said, in a very similar situation, rocked both Kirk and his first officer. They exchanged a glance. Outwardly impassive, Spock said:

“Then may you at least find peace, Mr Solo.”

Spock activated the transporter.

Kirk, beside him, watched the UNCLE agent shimmer and disappear, then, irresistibly, laid a hand across his first officer’s forearm. He thought of the times he’d put his life and career on the line for his first officer and dearest friend. Of the times everyone had believed _him _lost – everyone but Spock, who’d risked everything to save him, logic bedamned. So far, they’d both been spared what Solo was facing today.

Spock looked at his captain, seemingly impassive, yet with a hint of compassion in his dark eyes.

Kirk squeezed. “Sorry. I … I know, a little, how he must feel.”

Understanding softened Spock’s expression.

“As do I.”

~*~*~

Napoleon sat in the car outside Annie’s house. The curtains were drawn; he wasn’t up to dealing with her just yet, but that, too, was his job, and he would do it. In a minute.

He activated his communicator. “Open Channel D.”

“Yes, Mr Solo.” Mr Waverly’s voice sounded alien, a million miles and years away.

“The canisters of poison and their owners have been destroyed, sir,” he said.

“Excellent. How are you and Mr Kuryakin?”

The ice spread in his gut. “I’m all right, sir. Mr Kuryakin –” His voice broke, emotion overriding his hurry to simply say the words. He clutched the pen in a rock-hard fist, but couldn’t go on.

“Mr Solo?”

Napoleon took a deep breath through clenched teeth, said quickly, “Illya didn’t make it.” He let his hand fall to his lap, covering his eyes with the other. The finality of the words was too much. To have even said it felt like a betrayal. Every heartbeat pounded _it can’t be true, it can’t be true _throughout his body.

He looked at his hand. Shaking, but dry. No tears. He was in shock, in limbo – not dead, but not alive, either.

“Mr Solo!”

He realized Mr Waverly had been calling his name. He raised the pen wearily.

“Here, sir.”

“I’m sorry, Mr Solo. Come home as soon as you can.”

Typical Waverly – he knew there was nothing to be said, nothing to be done at a time like this but his duty.

_If I can just get through the next minute. Then the next. _

But after that, he knew, there would be nothing but more minutes, more hours, more days, endless blackness to be endured. And after that, the pain, guilt and anger. At its end, at best, numbness. There’d be no healing; what he’d lost was irreplaceable and as necessary to his life as his brain or his heart.

_Illya_. Napoleon bowed his head, oblivious to the curious glances of passersby, coiled around the pain as it were a knife in his vitals.

~*~*~

The door beeped.

“Come.”

Spock entered, and Kirk shut off the log with a finger, then looked up at his first officer, his own right hand and dearest friend. _Can we ever know how much they mean to us until they’re gone_? he thought, and shuddered inside, silencing the fear.

“What is it?”

Hands behind his back, Spock gazed blandly at the wall above Kirk’s head, a sure sign he was feeling both pleased with himself and a little ashamed. “During a ... routine scan of the chemical plant and its environs –”

“Routine scan ..?” Kirk began, puzzled.

“– I came upon life signs that matched a pattern in our transporter databanks. How he freed himself from the Klingons I do not know, but – ”

“What?” Kirk straightened, rose. “Spock, are you saying ..?”

The Vulcan allowed himself the hint of a smile he occasionally indulged in.

“Mr Kuryakin is in sick bay, where he clearly belongs although he vociferously denies being injured. I thought perhaps you might wish to ... apprise Mr Solo of his partner’s status ...”

“Spock ...” Kirk drew in a deep, much needed breath, dredged up a sharp tone from somewhere far beneath his delight. “_Mister _Spock.”

One brow climbed. “Sir?”

“A _routine _scan, Mr Spock? For what reason?”

The bland stare returned, this time directed at the captain. “Simply to ... ah ... ascertain that the Klingons left behind no ... anomalous items that might interfere with the time line. Sir.”

Grinning, Kirk leaned over the intercom, punched a button. “Transporter room.”

“Transporter room,” came a familiar voice.

“This is the captain, Mr Kyle. Locate Mr Solo and beam him back aboard as soon as possible. And, Mr Kyle – ”

“Yes sir?”

“Beam Mr Solo directly into sick bay, please.”

“Yes sir.”

Kirk strode past his first officer, shaking his head. “Routine scan,” he scoffed. “Be careful, Mr Spock.”

“Sir?”

“Your humanity is showing.”

Spock said nothing as he followed his captain along the corridor to sick bay.

**~*~*~**

It was the Enterprise’s sickbay, unless he was much mistaken. Napoleon looked around, totally confused. Hearing voices arguing, he headed toward them.

Through the doorway, trailed by McCoy, Chapel, Kirk and Spock, limped a very battered Illya, who stopped with an exaggerated sigh of relief on seeing his partner.

“Napoleon. Will you _please _tell these people ... Na – Napoleon? What’s wrong?”

Life flooded through him, heady as any drug. Words escaped him – he’d no idea which, though later Illya swore he’d said “Thank God” – as he flung his arms around his partner, staggering him physically as well as emotionally.

“Napoleon!” Illya grabbed his partner’s arms, held him back to search his face, alarmed. “What is wrong?”

Kirk cleared his throat. “Uh ...” Illya glanced at him. “We all thought that you were on the Klingon ship when we destroyed it.”

Alarmed in a very different way, Illya looked back at his partner, the tear-blurred eyes, the naked emotion still visible even as Napoleon fought to cover it.

Illya swallowed; mindful of the room full of people he kept his tone light. “I saw them chasing you and Annie – I knew I’d just slow you down so I ducked back into the duct – no pun intended. Then, I just kept crawling until I came to their own … what do you call it? Transportation room. They were moving large items – I assumed into the plant. I just sneaked onto the platform and got transported over along with the containers. After that it was fairly easy to stay hidden. I heard the ship take off – how they’re going to explain that on the ground, I don’t know. Mass hallucination?” He shrugged. “In any case, that’s how I got off the ship.”

Napoleon was grinning, shaking his head. “And they say _I’m_ lucky.”

Loftily, Illya said, “Very little luck was involved. It was deductive reasoning.” Then, recalling with a start, he gestured back toward the other room. “What about Ben Cross?”

“He’s fine,” McCoy said. “He’ll take some time to fully heal – and the emotional trauma will take longer – but I’ve done what I can to make both as smooth as possible without doing anything that can be detected with the current technology.” He waited. “Don’t everyone thank me at once.”

Kirk had more pressing concerns. “We need to beam him down before he sees more than he already has.”

“Send him back with us,” Illya suggested. “Sedated. We’ll explain to Annie.”

With a nod, McCoy headed back into the other room, his words trailing gaily behind him. “I love a happy ending.”

~*~*~

A short time later, in the transporter room, Napoleon, Illya, Kirk, and Spock waited for Ben Cross to be wheeled in for the final journey home.

Kirk smiled. “You and your partner should get into a safer line of work.”

Napoleon echoed the smile, rueful acknowledgement, but replied, “I might say the same to you.”

Kirk nodded. “Point taken.” He glanced at their respective right-hand men, deep in conversation at the transporter controls. “Perhaps it goes with the territory. Few men can say they’ve had the riches we have.”

“And perhaps we appreciate those riches more than other men,” Napoleon added, “because of the life we live.”

Kirk held his eyes, and Napoleon saw complete understanding there. The two men shook hands, looked up to see Spock and Illya watching them. Spock said something that prompted Illya to smile slightly and respond.

Kirk looked back at Solo. “Napoleon. It’s been an honor meeting and working with you.”

“Jim. The honor was mine – and I have only rarely been able to honestly say that.”

Illya smiled. “It was a pleasure saving the world with you.”

Spock raised his hand. “Live long and prosper, Illya Kuryakin, Napoleon Solo.”

To Napoleon’s surprise, Illya echoed the odd hand gesture. “Live long and prosper, Mr Spock, captain.”

Kirk grinned as Spock transported the agents home.

THE END


End file.
